


To have a Brother who would die for You

by hellhoundsprey



Series: twinsanity!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Twins, Bottom Sam, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Referenced Child Neglect, Seduction, Threesome - M/M/M, Toxic Relationship, Twincest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 19:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4491492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester twins are special; Sam knows it the second they get out of that shiny black car and into old, rotten Louisiana Street. Just like extra-sugarcoated cough syrup, they seem too good to be true, too handsome and fascinating and godlike in his too boring, too meaningless life. By the time thick herbal makes his stomach cramp, it's too late to spit them out. And by the one-too-many spoonsful, Sam isn't too sure that he wants to, either.</p><p>(This story takes place one year after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2795579">ItiaKthtbaL</a>.) // (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ow2bzZnWlMg&list=PLRa-8ZSOcdnsGGnf99at3kDXfLeL4Qr8W">Soundtrack</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story's Lawrence, Kansas is not the actual, real one. I did do some online research for certain places and names - but in the end, this is an alternative version of the town to fit the story's needs. 
> 
> **WARNING:** This story discusses the **seduction of a minor** through two older and psychologically superior young adults. The twins absolutely take advantage of Sam: drugs are being used, mind games are being executed - sometimes willingly, sometimes unconsciously - and sexual consent is, even though it is discussed at several points, not clearly given (also but not mainly due to Sam's age).  
>  Another difficult element is Dean's **abusive behavior** (especially in combination with drug use/hint of beginning addiction) towards his twin-brother. He is controlling/scheming, aggressive (both mental and physical) and highly manipulative.  
>  I did my best at not romanticizing the problematic elements while staying in Sam's young/naïve point of view, but anyway: **Please stay safe and trigger-free.** This is **not** your happy-go-lucky kind of fiction.

Even though they are in the depth of July, the car's polished black paint seems to eat up all the sunlight there is. There's a faraway sound that cigarette butt makes while hitting the asphalt; like a sizzle. This is special, and Sam knows it is, right away.

It's like staring into a wild animal's face right before it eats you up. The light is different in those eyes that meet his own all the way from across the pavement - green wrapped in white; awake, piercing. At least that's what it feels like right now, what it'll feel like when Sam will remember it months, years from now.

There's lips and they _curl_ , add a sparkle to those eyes. Perfect lines of teeth are even whiter than the clean cotton shirt a foot farther down. The guy is down-right _surreal_. Sam knows models exist and therefore _have_ to exist _out there_ _somewhere_ , but this one here is alive and in the flesh, not a print in some magazine, and he's looking straight at him, _at Sam_ ; as if they were alone in this street, as if there weren't people in the nearby houses who are watching the new neighbors unpack as well; as if Sam was all that matters to this handsome guy halfway out that handsome car in this particular moment.

Sam feels special.

"Hey buddy," he hears from a voice like gravel and a hot bath and cigarettes.

"Hey," he answers and wishes he hadn't; five foot eight of limbs and too little flesh and a self-esteem whose value is as high as Sam's haircut is outdated.

But the lips don't uncurl, no, rather smack the words from them. "This yours?"

To Sam's right, his helicopter toy rests in the grass. He might have flown and crashed it over here by accident. Eventually. "Uh, yeah," he tries. It is hard to speak loud and clear if you are conscious about the jumps in your voice that still occur from time to time, just won't even out to that low bass everyone but him seems to accomplish.

"Not bad." The way the guy lifts that box out of that trunk motivates Sam to devour every last bit of protein he can possibly put his hands on.

Box and guy pass him. Sam feels naked in his worn-down sneakers and too-big Goodwill clothes. His fingers play with the remote in his jeans' pocket. Tiny boy again, shy and not pushy, but _please don't leave yet_. "Built it myself."

A whistle close by the door. "Wow. Jen, get this; we're moving in next to Einstein!"

He blinks against the sunlight a few times, but the image _stays_ and indeed _is_ the exact same green that peers up at him, looks him down - another set. That mouth is tight before it softens, curls in sympathy for its twin. _Twin_. That's the word.

Sam might suffocate. Two are too much. Not two of those godlike creatures.

"Einstein, huh? Well, _Winchester_ here, nice to meet you."

The handshake is awkward on Sam's side, firm and warm on the other. "W-Wesson."

Fluent steps, and damn, those _legs_. They both have them wrapped in identical jeans, just to mock Sam's eyes, that's for sure.

There's a warm palm around his shoulder that turns him, sun glistening through spikey, short hair. "What's your name, kiddo?"

There might have been breath before but every cell seems to be sucked to where that hand is on him. "Sam," he breathes.

"Hi there, Sam. I'm Dean." A bigger smile, another handshake. There is too little space in between them and it's awkward somehow. Maybe Sam's just not used to that - being close to others - so he remains frozen in his spot. "An' that little bitch over there, that's my brother, Jensen." A distant warning from behind the car but Sam cannot tear his eyes away from this green right in front of him. It's not very polite to stare like he does, but the guy doesn't seem to mind. "You live here somewhere?"

"Next-door."

Fingers brush up Sam's arm, just a tiny gesture, but Sam chases it unconsciously. He catches himself too late, by the time the fingers leave and all that stays is that faint twist to Sam's stomach and the red tips of his ears under his mop of brown, shaggy hair. "Cool," Dean says all casually. Maybe he didn't notice.

"Less flirting, more working," Jensen hisses between them and that turns Sam's guts even more, sends damp spots under his armpits and blood to his entire face. Dean's laughter doesn't help at all.

"Don't listen to him. He's the _stupid_ twin. I'm the cool one, obviously." Sam half-chokes his polite chuckle and it must sound terribly nervous and weird while Dean has a gold medal winner's one, some celebrity's. Sam's throat grows tighter while his belt seems to loosen up another inch. Dean on the other hand remains casual, fluent. Natural. "But he's right, I guess. We're a little busy right now."

The heat is gone, broad back turned to Sam. The sweat on his palm coats the remote.

"Maybe you can show us around later?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Sam manages through heavy nods with his heart pounding in his chest. He'll take it, every bait, every last crumble of one.

"Cool," Dean repeats, flashes his teeth when he passes Sam with another box.

"Do you have bikes?"

"Oh, _geez_ , they must've gone into the _van_ ," Jensen exclaims. They pass him in turns and Sam steps from one useless foot to the other.

There's a frown in Dean's voice. "What _van_?"

"The one the _rest_ is in, idiot." Jensen gives a slap to the pretty car's hood. "You know, what _didn't_ _fit_ into your old beauty over here."

Sam sees them next to each other for the first time now. They're genuinely alike, from head to toe. Maybe he sees in doubles now. It's still a possibility, isn't it?

Dean raises his forefinger along with his voice. "You don't call a lady 'old', douchebag." Lower again, softer, he turns back around to face Sam. His face is bright like the deep summer sun. "You mind finding two horses for us two old men?"

Three spare ones in the garage: one of them decent, another one ready to go after another few touches. Finally, his "collecting and repairing trash" habit is paying off. And Mom said it's stupid, ha. "Sure," he smiles.

"Cool."

The word feels amazing attached to something he did, Sam observes.

* * *

It's hard to keep his cool around them, but Sam tries. Everyone is staring at them. Well, maybe not _them_ in particular, more at the twins than anything else - but he's _with_ them. They're oblivious to it like all beautiful people are. They're probably used to stares and thus not afraid to return them. At one point, Dean almost collides with a tree because Mindy Raynolds is walking down the street with the one or two other cheerleaders in those tiny jeans shorts that (unfortunately for everyone) are banned at their school.

And he deserves it. Not the tree, of course; but girls like Mindy. They're meant for each other, gods amongst each other; do not wear clothing woven of two kinds of material. Sam's nothing like this - he's another species altogether. He knows that alright. Maybe they're just making fun of him with all that attention, maybe they spare it out of pity - but Sam knows better than to be picky. Even those thirty-and-up minutes spent on cruising the town together is a memory he will be able to feed from for a long time.

Under his breath, he introduces them to this and that, listens to them joke around. Patrick Schwartz ( _the_ Patrick; football captain Patrick) talks them up and that's when Sam is sure they'll ditch him for something, someone better. He stands a bit ahead of them, not part of their circle of muscle and testosterone and cojones. A sigh sends his shoulders from tense to loose bottom. He braces himself for the inevitable goodbye. Was nice while it lasted, at least.

"Hey, come on! Please tell me this has _not_ been the entire town yet."

Dean is next to him suddenly, glancing over at Sam and then down the street disappearing in between buildings. He grips the bike's handlebars in a way that make his shoulders bulge.

Sam feels dizzy with euphoria. "Yeah- n-no, I mean, I uh- There's more."

Jensen closes in on them and offers a smile to Sam.

He takes it.

* * *

"You built this, too?"

The years made it less and less appealing but it's sturdy and it's all Sam's. So he'll share it with them, now that he finally has someone to share it with. A tree house is not exactly "cool", but the twins seem incredibly bored and easily entertained. Maybe this will be enough to keep them around a little longer. Just a little.

"Nah… My, uh- my uncle helped me. I was, like, eight." He grabs the rope and climbs until he reaches the ladder, climbs that too. The feeling of his jeans slipping down an inch on his hips is terrifying, but he tells himself that the guys probably have seen enough boxer shorts in their own lives already to be startled by his ones.

It's always a relieve to find the interior like he left it. Doug and him chose this place because not many people pass by, not even hikers. There's the two blankets, some books and half-empty bags of candy, his own muddy footprints from a few weeks ago when it was raining cats and dogs and he simply _had_ to check if his tree house was still there. Seven years and it still is as sturdy as it was back when they completed it.

"Dude, this is amazing!"

On his ass, Sam calculates the twins' weight at about one-sixty pounds each - yeah, it should support the three of them. "It's nothing special," he mutters, knees drawn up to his chest while he watches the twins climb in and next to him onto the blanket, "just the view, really. See?" Warmth left and right from him, he barely dares to move, so he solely points his forefinger to the "window". "Kansas River," he tells them.

"Amazing." Jensen's eyes are drawn out into the blue and green, limbs casually draped like Sam could never do it. "Dee! Why'd we never have something like this? I want something like this."

Dean snorts a laugh. The fact that he's near enough to stir the air on Sam's arm with it is enough to send a shiver down Sam's spine. "We'd have broken it."

"Guess we would've." Jensen slumps back against the wall behind them with a tired sigh.

Didn't he have a bottle of water up here some time ago? He should offer them something.

"Thanks for taking us up here." Sam turns to take a confused look at Jensen, because, uh, this just some old planks of wood nailed together. He is met with mild, deep eyes. So there _are_ differences, after all. "I'm sure this is a special place for you. It's an honor."

Woah, this is just too much. He must be red like a school girl at this point. When Sam knits his fingers through his hair, it's sweaty underneath them. "It's, uh… Thanks. I just come here to be by myself sometimes."

Jensen frowns up at him. "Isn't that a little lonely?"

"It isn't," he assures. There's lonely and there's _lonely_. Out here, it's different. There's nobody around, so it actually feels _less_ lonely compared to being surrounded by others whom he seems to be invisible. "I know… it's a bit weird. But I like it."

"Well, I see what you mean." When Sam turns his head to see what Dean is doing, he is fumbling with a little silver case of some sort. What's that? It smells weird. Sam fails to connect it with anything he knows. "And you decide to share this with us, huh? I feel flattered, kiddo." Sam cranes his neck to catch a glimpse, but Dean's eyes dart up into his and put him back in place. They're too intense on him like that.

An eyebrow teases high. "Hey, 't was a rough day. Don't judge."

Zippo flicks, flames lick; Sam's mouth parts at the sight of tightly-rolled white paper and twisted end that vanishes into thick, sweet smoke all too fast. Weed. They're smoking weed. In his tree house. In his _presence_. He wants to shout his protest because this is illegal, he knows what this is, even he who hasn't even touched a single beer yet _knows_. On the other hand… this is fucking amazing.

"Hey, pass it on."

The joint travels in front of Sam, from fingers to fingers. He watches the tip glim and listens to Dean's deep exhale, the relaxed sound coming with it at the end. Jensen takes one hit and keeps his chest tight, his lips parted over closed teeth. Smoke blasting from his nostrils makes him look like right out of one of those old detective movies. It's hard to believe that up until a few seconds ago, the most scandalous thing that ever happened up here were Sam's fantasies about his history teacher Mrs. Piggles.

"Want some?"

He contemplates it for the few seconds it's held out in front of him - but finally shakes his head.

Dean retrieves it. "What, really? Come on. How old are you? Seventeen? Have some fun. It's good stuff, too."

Seventeen. They think he's seventeen already. "I'm okay, thanks."

"C'mon. It's not like we're gonna charge you o' somethin'."

The smoke by itself makes him light-headed already. This is not good. He hasn't eaten barely enough to digest this here easily. But oh... _the temptation_. And they _offer_ it to him. They _want_ him to do this with them. It's a little like a secret club of some sort. Sam shifts in his position. "... I've never done that," he mutters eventually. Damn. The mind is weaker than the body thought it'd be.

Sam stares at the joint in between Dean's lips. For lashes like that, every girl must be envying him. Sam shouldn't stare that much.

"Let us teach you," Dean hums.

It's all happening too fast and in slow motion at the same time. Between the thrill of taboo and attention, there's uncertainty. He's really never done this, not even smoked a regular cig. TV taught him that you cough a lot the first time, and that'd be super embarrassing. The twins seem practiced and don't even _huff_ at the thick smoke.

They don't seem to hate him. Hell, maybe (and only God knows why) they even _like_ him a little. Otherwise they wouldn't do this in front of him, right? They could have shared this with Patrick or Mindy and her girls, could have hanged out with _them_ \- but they're here, with _him_. This is all going so fucking fast and his stomach is churning from it. But what if this is his only chance to get and stay on this ride? He cannot blow it. He won't.

"Okay," Sam hears himself say.

Outside, the river is rushing by. Along with his own heartbeat, it is the only sound in Sam's world for a few moments until Dean's eyes slip away from Sam's and stop somewhere over his shoulder like he's looking for something and then finds it. A smile spreads on his mouth. Jensen's snickering startles Sam and when he turns around to maybe find a reason for the laughter, the twin is where he was the last time Sam has checked.

Sweat starts to prickle on his neck again. The humiliation of having laughter directed at him is just too familiar. Maybe this is it. This has been the test and he (of course) managed to fuck it up.

Halfway through his pained exhale, knuckles brush his forearm.

When Sam turns back to Dean, he's moved even closer than before.

"Relax," he is instructed. Soft pressure of that warm hand guides him to sit less uptight until Sam is almost lying down except for being propped up on his elbows, mimicking the twins' poses.

"That's a boy," Jensen says from his left. Sam blinks against the smoke.

Dean's hand is still where he left it. Sam would never complain… even though it really is weird. But if the twins decide this much touching and this little distance is okay, than he'll go with it. "First smoke ever?"

Sam nods his head in honesty.

Those teeth are perfect enough to be in a toothpaste ad. "Alright," and Dean chuckles the word to himself, bobs his eyebrows a little. The drag of his lashes on the blink open is making Sam nervous somehow, thinking of how that gaze behind them is directed so complete and utterly at him and him alone. "First drag's always a bitch. Burns your lungs like shit. So we're gonna try a little somethin', alright?"

Again and a little less certain, Sam nods.

"This's gonna feel real nice in a few, so don't worry. 'S a little like floatin'." Dean leans in a little closer and Sam doesn't allow his body to flinch away.

Inches are crossed before Sam can file this down as a joke, because a joke would never go this _far_ , wouldn't allow him to practically feel Dean's lips on his own and he _panics_ \- but here they stop _and Sam tastes smoke_.

The gasp brings it deep down his lungs and despite this "precautious measure" or what it is supposed to be, it hurts horribly. Sam succumbs to the urgency of his coughs and topples forward, away from that mouth and into the safe space between his chest and pulled-up knees. He hears the tandem laugh and tears start prickling in the corners of his eyes. Could be from humiliation, panic, or exhaustion from his coughing fit, but he succeeds in blinking them away eventually.

A hand on his back; two. One rubs, the other pets. Another dives into his hair. It's all too much too fast and he gets dizzy from it, grabs hard at his jeans to hold on.

"Easy, easy."

"Not bad, kiddo."

While he waits for his chest to stop convulsing, Sam listens to the river rushing by, to the twins' deep breaths over his back. The thickness of the smoke eventually has him sitting up straight again. He rubs his eyes; sniffles. The tip of his nose feels strangely tingly.

Dean tugs at his shoulder to draw his attention to him. Sam's eyes seem to move slower than he wants them to.

"C'mere," Dean smiles and closes in again.

Sam leaves his eyes open and keeps his inhale in control. He figures his breathing should be stretched and slow, so that he won't take in too much smoke in too little time. It will probably cool down a little like this, too.

Yes, this is better. He chokes a little on the heaviness, but his lungs remain calm.

"Good boy," Sam hears.

Dean's eyes jump over his face, in between eyes and mouth and the tips of his hair. The hand on his shoulder burns through his t-shirt while his own ones in his lap are practically non-existent. "More?" Dean asks.

Sam's tongue is too thick to speak. He nods with his mouth open, eyes still wide. A numb sensation crawls up his spine, bleeds into his limbs, his neck. Dean's mouth is back with his lips so _pursed_ , and Sam happily swallows what he is offered, the horror and danger of it all a deep thrum inside his belly now, no longer an alarming bell in the space between his ears. Eventually, Sam loses the reason for holding his eyes open. His throat ticks when he swallows the last bit of smoke.

The hand from his shoulder travels up to the hem of his shirt and higher, meets his sweaty neck there and Sam's entire body jolts with the sensation of Dean's fingertips on his bare skin.

Lips again; close, closer. Dean's palm cradles him, holds his heavy head from drooping onto his shoulder. His skin even _smells_ warm; like tobacco and pot and sweat.

Sam inhales, but there is no smoke. Instead, something touches his lips. Even though his body wants to automatically recoil, it doesn't; is too heavy to actually move.

 _This is a kiss_ , Sam thinks.

Dean tips his head so that their mouths fit into each other even better, presses them closer. By the time Sam manages to finally turn his head away, Dean has found his laughter again.

This is too much. Sam rests his head in his own palm and rubs his eye with the ball of it. It's not easy; his breath is starting to hitch. "Wha... what..."

"Shhh, hey; hey, it's okay."

Another hand - Jensen's. Sam's face is turned the other way, into another mouth.

They feel the same and it shouldn't humor Sam that much, should it? He is confused. The kissing _does_ feel great - but he is not _gay_. He might like the twins, but this is too much.

Jensen hums into his mouth while Dean kisses Sam's cheek. They're taking turns on him, and at the realization of it Sam feels his face flush red; feels _the red tips of his_ _ears_ , for God's sake. His fists are still clutched into his jeans. This does not make sense. The twins could get any girl they wanted, or, if they actually were into dudes, at least someone with better looks than Sam.

If this _was_ a game to degrade him... shouldn't they _stop_ and go to the actual degradation part at some point? Sam is making it easy for them by playing along, even though he still hasn't figured out a good excuse for that yet. They just keep going and going and going, and eventually, the idea of them rejecting him fades into nothing. Sam kisses back then, just moves with the flow of their mouths, and hopes it isn't too bad. He hasn't done this before.

Dean chuckles then but instead of pushing Sam away, he shoves his tongue in between Sam's lips. Without much of a thought, he lets it in.

Back and forth between them, Sam gets dizzier. "A little like floating" indeed, fuzzy around the edges. Slow. A hand runs down his body. It is neither known nor important whose it is, really; all that matters is that burn it leaves on its trail, pressing worn cotton onto sweat-damp skin.

"Feel good?"

Sam's lashes flutter. He licks his lips that shouldn't be that dry. "Yeah," he croaks in reflex.

"You still with us? Too much pot?"

"N... no, I... I guess... I... I'm okay..." He is. He kinda really is. When he dares to peek through his lashes, he catches Dean's eyes, the roll of his bottom lip in between his teeth. Sam presses his eyes shut again.

Fingertips graze his naked belly underneath his t-shirt. The muscles flutter without Sam's consent and he hiccups his next breath. Jensen nuzzles his temple and presses kisses there. His mouth is soft and scorching hot on Sam's skin, and he is embarrassed over the sweat Jensen must taste on him. He cringes and leans his head onto Dean's shoulder. Cologne and laundry detergent and deodorant fill his nose. The fingertips become a palm, flicks become brushes, become circling motions. Nobody speaks. All Sam can hear is Dean's pulse, Jensen's kisses, the shifting of his clothing over the restless hand.

Fingers entwine with his left hand. It must be Jensen who does it. When he is given a reassuring squeeze, Sam curls his fingers in return. A thumb rubs over the joint of his own. The twins' touches are so tender. With frames like that, it almost seems impossible.

"First time with a guy?"

He almost laughs at the question, but then Dean's fingers find the hem of his boxer shorts that peek out over his loose jeans. _Very_ suddenly, he is _very_ aware of how _very_ hard he is. He isn't gay. He isn't gay. He isn't gay. He replays the sentence in his head like a prayer, but it doesn't seem to reach any important parts of his consciousness. Sam nods violently, hidden in the safe space of Dean's nape of the neck.

Dean makes an almost feral sound, right above his ear. Goose bumps send every hair on Sam's body straight up; Sam feels his nipples poke out under his t-shirt. "God. You're so hot. Do you even know?" He cannot answer that, flushes deeper, presses his sweaty forehead harder against Dean's neck.

The hand slips into his shorts. Sam holds his breath deep in his throat. His heartbeat makes his teeth clatter.

"... Dude."

Dean pushes off of him a bit and thus reveals his bright-red face. Sam looks up at him and finds confusion all over the dark pink apples of Dean's cheeks.

" _How_ old are you again?"

Sam blinks.

"What?" he hears.

"Jen, he is like, completely _bare_!"

The tug is sudden, hard and effective, and leaves Sam with his mouth open and his jeans and shorts halfway down his thighs. His knees won't come up to let him curl in on himself. The three of them stare down at his still hairless crotch, the soft fuzz on his lower belly circling inwards to his navel. A shiny stain marks the spot his pathetically wet cockhead smacked against when it sprung from his pants. Sam wants to die.

"Oh fuck," Jensen says.

Dean laughs. "Fuck indeed."

"I'm- I'm fifteen," Sam whines softly. His right arm obeys, lets his hand curl over his tight balls and cover himself with his slim forearm. "I'm... The doc said it was normal, I'm just slow, I just-"

Dean's hand wraps around his wrist and pulls his arm back up. Tears return into Sam's eyes.

"... Dee."

"I- I know, I just... C'mon, Jen. Earlier, you said-"

"I _know_ what I said-"

" _Sam_."

He looks up.

Dean's face is controlled, forced into softness. Sam can see it in the sharp corners of Dean's mouth. Almost as if Dean was suppressing a smile. "Sam. Hey. It's alright. It's alright, okay? Don't cry."

"You think I'm a kid!" he wails.

Dean's expression breaks then, and the grip on Sam's wrist softens with his laughter. It doesn't make much sense to Sam's scrambled brains. "No. No, we certainly don't, Sammy." The words come soft, as if they were comfort. Sam doesn't remember the intention his outbreak had. Was he mad that they were staring at him? Was he mad about himself being the way he is? Was he mad that it seems to be a problem? Everything is spinning in his head. "You're tall for your age, you know that? Mature, too."

He sniffles at the unsuspected praise. "... Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dean's knee nudges his thigh. "Just look at that dick. Impressive, man." There's a small laugh, but it feels encouraging rather than degrading. Heat pools low in Sam's belly. "But it wasn't nice that you lead us on."

His stomach drops. He was just being nice, wasn't he? Not even twenty minutes ago, they were discussing the Nolan Batman trilogy's pros and cons. Before being kissed by them, Sam didn't even know they would possibly be interested in someone without a matching pair of vagina and boobs. "Wha...? I-"

"You shoulda told us that you're underage." Dean's face is all stone now. It has Sam swallowing air and fills him with regret. Yeah, there had been opportunities for that. But they had been on eye level so far, hadn't they? A few years can't make that much of a difference, can they? But maybe he should have thought of it anyway. Definitely should have when they offered him the joint. Fuck. "We're in kind of a difficult situation right now. Or, I am, really." Sam starts at a harsh rut of jeans against his naked skin. Even through the layer of clothing, that damp, solid line of heat is unmistakable. Sam's eyes start to swim. "'Cause I think... there's a really... really... pretty pussy down there." Sam's stomach takes a leap at that. The word scandalizes him as much as it arouses him. Dean's fingers tap downwards from his ribs, over his tight side and the arches of his hip bones; down his thigh, where Dean's hand easily wraps around. On its side, Dean still has his dick pressed against him. The foreign body heat seeps into his flesh as if he was a sponge. Dean mouths at Sam's jaw, ghosts his breath there. Sam imagines the three of them must carry the the same taste on their tongues. "And now I can't have it."

"Feel this?" Jensen tugs at his hand and brings the back of it down against his crotch. Sam gasps at the sensation whose twin already rests against his thigh. Both of them. They're both aroused, and he is touching both of them. "You did this to us. How are you gonna make that right, huh?"

Yes, yes, he did. He should have known; should have understood earlier what their intentions were. He should have told them, he should have been honest. There are apologies on his tongue; "sorry" and "I didn't mean it like that" and "please don't hate me". They're too pathetic. Sam can't bring himself to spill them.

"Lemme eat you out, Sammy." It comes directly into the shell of his ear, in a low whisper and so affectionately it eases Sam's anxiety about his mistake, at least a little. Sam's mouth drops open so that he can get more air into his body. "Lemme eat that pussy, and we won't be mad at all. Alright?"

He's watched some porn, he's heard others talk about it. At fifteen, you know what most of the filthy terms mean - but you don't know what to _expect_. Especially since Dean keeps using the term "pussy" when Sam does not have one. He isn't stupid though, and figures he knows what Dean means. The idea doesn't seem too pleasant, but... if Dean _wants_ to do that...? Sam gnaws at the inside of his cheek. His heart jackrabbits against his ribs. _Calm down. Calm down. You got yourself into this, and now you've gotta clean up your mess. It's this, or they'll be pissed at you._

There is not much of a choice for Sam. "... Okay."

Dean laughs off the tension and his excitement. Sam realizes that this is real, this is gonna happen, you just said _yes_.

"You terrible fucker," Jensen groans.

There's no response to that, only a last flicker of Dean's eyes from Jensen's to Sam's before he slides down Sam's body. He hefts himself between Sam's thighs and to Sam's horror hauls and bend them over his shoulders. Dean doesn't even look up, doesn't bother to see Sam's heaving chest and stomach; simply sends Sam's body shaking with his hot breath on the inside of his thighs, his taint, his _ass_ \- and presses his open mouth down there.

Sam makes a sound he won't remember afterwards, won't recall making it in the first place. He will remember the planks of his tree house's roof he stares up at, the sensation of his left hand caught between Jensen's sweaty palm and that rock-hard bulged denim, of Dean's lips and teeth and tongue and the press of his nose into his taint. Dean half-groans and half-chuckles into him, into that filthy, secret place he keeps between his legs that he never ever really payed attention to up until this very moment where his entire body seems to only be existing in that one place.

He's French-kissed down there, all sloppy and soft, and every drag of tongue goes directly to the base of his neglected cock, makes it jump against thin air. No hesitation, no shame; Dean all but _feasts_ at him, and he really sounds like he is enjoying this. There is not enough air in this world for the urgency of Sam's lungs, not enough blood in his fingers and toes with how much of it his head and cock need. Nonsense bubbles from his mouth maybe, or just little intelligible noises; he has no real control over that. Instead of gripping Dean's hair like he (maybe) wants to, he does so with the blanket they're lying on.

Jensen hovers into his field of vision with a lopsided grin on his face; their face. He's kissed on his mouth like he is kissed on his ass and it's insane. His hand is rubbed up and down that jeans' fly, hard enough to chafe if it goes on for longer than a minute or two. Which it doesn't.

The sound of a zipper, fumbling; warm, silken skin.

"Here," Sam is instructed, "Hold this."

He does. At the next swallow, he feels his throat tick with how dry it is. Jensen moves his hand for him, slowly up and down, curls his fingers tighter. Sam stutters in his breath when Dean pushes his tongue _inside_ him.

"Like that."

His body feels like it's on fire from the inside out, as if his skin could peel off any second now where their bodies are connected. He struggles to make his hand move over the eager hotwrongdirtyamazing swirls of Dean's tongue, but eventually manages. He's used to the scent from his own body, of course, but the knowledge that this time it isn't his _own_ dick he smells manipulates it into a completely new experience. Sweat, precome, laundry detergent. On the way down, coarse hairs tickle the edge of his hand. He makes a small surprised sound at it, something between novelty and shock and wonder, but it melts into something more throaty when Dean folds his body in on itself a little more to get deeper into him.

Now, Sam has his knees almost up to his nipples, with Dean's hands in the backs of his knees to keep his ass halfway in the air. The weed is making it hard to struggle, especially if Dean anchors him so well with his shoulders and broad hands. Oh God, this is too good. Jensen kisses his open mouth, brushes Sam's cheeks with his lashes. The dick in his hand simply fucks itself in and out when he forgets about taking care of it, so Sam settles with squeezing his fist tight. Jensen groans at that, noses the sweaty strands of hair in Sam's face.

"You're a natural," Jensen praises. The roll of his hips comes fluently and bump his balls against Sam's hand with each upwards thrust. Sam winces at the soft chuckle into his hair. The early burn from Dean shoving his tongue up his ass has subsided and by now faded into a persistent throbbing. He only becomes aware that he is grinding against Dean's mouth because Dean laughs against his asshole. Sam freezes then, but Dean looks up at him for the first time, through the narrow space of Sam's thighs, over the curve of his tight balls and his weeping cock. Sam can only see his eyes, big and almost innocent. They slide to his right where his twin fucks into the tight circle of Sam's hand, then a little higher. Sam cannot see his mouth from here. "Jen?"

"Yeah."

And then they move.

Sam complies to the shoves and pulls, too out of it to do anything else but that. Pot, curiosity and pleasure is not exactly an intelligence stimulating mix. He hadn't heard a question for Jensen to approve of, an indication for the plan they obviously had in mind; they're too coordinated to be pulling this off by improvisation. He's on all fours now, somehow. When he looks up, Dean is kneeling before him with his hands on the fly of his jeans. His eyes are heavy and trained on the long arch of Sam's back.

Dean gives a lick to his fat bottom lip. His mouth and chin are shiny with his spit. "Sit on his face, Sam."

Sam does. Another (the same?) mouth welcomes him warm and wet where he is already slippery and embarrassingly open. He gasps but doesn't dare to break eye contact with Dean. Jensen's hands come up around his hips and softly rock him back and forth against his mouth. The contended hum vibrates through Sam's crotch. Only now Sam realizes Dean's first hints of scruff rubbed his skin to tenderness, and it shouldn't feel so good, it really, really shouldn't; but does.

"Told you he'd be perfect." It's not him Dean is talking to. Sam hears the zipper being undone. "I have an eye for that, don't I. Now here, Sammy." Him. Sam buzzes with the thrill of the nickname, with the hungry licks to his clenching muscles, the warm hands on his flanks holding him in place. He's got this. He's got this. Dean touches his dick to the corner of Sam's mouth. "Open wide."

And Sam does. It tastes weird and he wants to recoil at it, but Dean shushes him, digs his fingers into Sam's hair and tugs oh-so softly. The scratch to his scalp is soothing. Sam is strangely aware of that bead of sweat rolling down his neck, his collar bone. He stays still under the threat of Dean's hooded eyes, under the pink flush on his face and the little jumps around the corners of his lips when he starts feeding his dick into Sam's mouth without resistance from the other end. When it grazes the back of Sam's throat, Dean pulls back before it can make Sam seriously gag. It's salty; rich. If Sam would've ever wondered how it would taste, he probably would have expected worse. The thought makes him want to laugh.

He's giving head, he thinks. He's giving head while someone licks his ass. When… how did this even happen? One of Jensen's hands guides one of Sam's to his neglected dick, wraps it back around it. Balanced on only one arm now, Sam stretches his back longer to find a more stable position, cranes his neck to avoid a too heavy pull on his hair. Too much is going on at once and he has to close his eyes. Warm. He's warm all over. They're touching him everywhere, each place more intense than the next. His dick grazes Jensen's belly with every other roll of his hips and the friction is heavenly.

Dean's dick slides farther down his throat and Sam cannot suppress his reflexes. The feeling of being caught, of not getting enough air is scary; he wants to pull back - but there's Dean's hand, Dean's soft "shhh" on repeat with a little laughter in it, as if this was a game. A second hand goes for his hair and pulls him in close, close enough to push tears into his eyes. Dean says "fuck yeah, that's it" and won't let go. Jensen laughs against his ass and pushes his hips out so that his dick juts in Sam's hand.

They're using him, Sam thinks. He arches his back deeper, gains more tongue and teeth for his ass and more cotton and rock-hard abs for his dick. Even through his nose, his breath can hitch, he realizes, and tries to ignore the sensation of spit running down his chin.

Everything happens fast then. Dean's rhythm gets rougher and his mouth runs and runs. Sam can only hear half of it over his own chokes, over the wet sounds Dean fucks out of his throat; but oh. _Oh_. "Fuck yeah, c'mon, c'mon, Sammy. Yeah, just like that. Good boy. Good boy; fuck. You're doin' so good, baby. Gonna make me come down your pretty throat." Sam doesn't realize that Jensen's hands are on his ass, spreading him for better access, and that the movements he makes against Jensen's face are his and his alone. If his throat had enough space, he would moan, would have to. But the way it is, he compensates by jerking Jensen off faster and moving his hips in sharper patterns.

He feels it coming and cannot do anything about it. Can't stop, can't ask for "wait", can only let it crash over himself. Just before it hits, everything goes numb - and that scares him. When he jerks off, it's different; predictable. This time, it lets him hang in the open for a few horrible seconds, leaves him waiting and anticipating and helpless.

When he comes, finally comes, his body goes completely taut, stills over Jensen's mouth that does not stop. Hands slide back up his hips and push-pull him back into movement, and he wants to wail, to defend himself, because it's too good, too fucking good and he doesn't even know what's happening. His dick manages to get caught in a giant crease of Jensen's shirt and it's maddening and terrible and he's ruining Jensen's shirt and oh God _he_ _won't stop coming_.

"Is he…?"

"Oh, you fuckin' _bet_."

"Fuck. _Fuck_." Dean pulls out, finally, and Sam gasps for the entire air of this state, coughs and whines and sobs all at the same time and Jensen's mouth _won't stop_. His head is pulled up, his cheek smacked with Dean's dick. "Did you just come on a fuckin' tongue up your ass? Oh Jesus fucking _Christ_." The way Dean puts it, it could be an insult, but Sam notices that he is jerking himself furiously. Everything is spinning. Jensen finally slows down a bit, alternates between kitten licks from perineum up to his rim and breathless laughter. "Jerk him off," comes the command from above. Sam complies.

His legs are shaking and his elbow almost gives in, but his hand is eager enough to make Jensen forget about his tongue, makes him groan and squirm and grip Sam's hips hard instead. Through clumped lashes, he tries to make out Dean's face somewhere above him, to predict his next movement. He fails, though, and Dean's dick shoves back into his mouth, right into the softness of his tongue, and starts spilling right then and there. Dean's voice breaks shortly before Jensen's does.

The taste is strange. He should know it, he tasted himself a few years back out of sheer curiosity, but memory and present do not match. It's a lot, warm, filling his mouth up to the point where he has to close his lips around Dean's cock so that he won't drool all over the three of them. He has to swallow; once, twice. Just then he recognizes the familiar feeling of warmth spitting over his fist, that oh-so soft and wet squelch it gives his slowing down movements. Jensen's breath comes harsh and cold against his dripping wet skin.

Slowly, the world falls back in place as if it was packed in cotton and so so much heavier than before. Dean's arm guides Sam over and down until they lay side by side, facing each other, catching their breaths. Jensen turns until all their heads are in a neat line; Sam can feel him against his back.

He can't move his legs and isn't too sure he would even want to. Nobody moves or touches. When the pounding of blood in his ears finally subsides, Sam dares to open his eyes, even if it's just a tiny slit.

There's sunlight, flecks of dust like confetti in it. Beads of sweat on Dean's forehead don't run together just yet, just lie there and wait for him to calm down. Dean wears an exhausted expression, somewhere between pain and relieve. His lips are red and wet from all the biting he put them through. He sniffles loudly, runs the back of his hand over his eyes; blinks them open for a few beats.

Before they fall back closed, Sam sees his reflection in them.

* * *

"Aw, shit." Jensen rubs his face with both of his hands. Confused, he gets up on his elbow, looks around himself. "What time is it?" he groans.

Sam pulls his knees closer to his chest. To say that he feels guilty for whatever unpleasant thing is happening to Jensen right now is an understatement. "Six forty," he mutters.

"Fuck." Jensen reaches over Sam to punch his brother's shoulder. Harder than necessary, Sam observes. "Dad's gonna kill us. Fuck. Dean. C'mon."

An unhappy sound from his right.

"I didn't know you had to… I- You were so exhausted, so I let you sleep…"

Jensen's hand wraps around Sam's shoulder and rub-squeezes reassuringly. "It's alright. You couldn't know. Don't sweat it. _Dean_!" A kick now. Sam startles at it. Having siblings isn't as fun as he always thought it would be, huh.

"Alrightalrightalright, fuckkk, calm down! Jesus fuck."

"Almost seven, man; c'mon. Chop chop."

Dean groans again but follows Jensen's quick movements out of the tree house and down the ladder. Sam scrambles to his knees to follow them. On the ground, he feels how weak his knees still are. Dean lights himself a cigarette while Jensen tries to flatten his shirt; fails. Sam's cheeks flush into a deep shade of red at the sight of the unmistakable stains. "I, uh, I'm-"

"Don't sweat it," Jensen repeats with a tired smile. "Always gotta pay a little price for a little fun."

Dean laughs at that and smacks Sam's back, making him almost topple over. "Helluva fuckin' lots of fun. Shit."

"You're not the one with jizz all over yourself, asshole."

"Pfff. Don't act like you don't enjoy it."

"Fucker!" A punch against Dean's chest, but not full-force. Both twins laugh with Sam in the middle of them. The fresh air turns his head surprisingly empty, light. Blinking against the sunlight and the smoke emerging from Dean's cigarette, Sam smiles without having a real reason for it.

Dean finds his eyes as he purses his lips for a deep inhale. "You okay, kiddo?"

Sam nods. Yeah. Yeah, he's okay. He's great, actually.

That smile melts into deeper softness. "Good," he says.

"Yeah," Sam completes.

Jensen sighs and turns to get his bike. They follow and do the same as in an unspoken order.

They're keeping the bikes for now, and Sam is happy to allow it. After their goodbyes yesterday, he plowed through a lone serving of convenience mac 'n cheese and fell asleep like a drunk baby. Which he was, kind of. A high, fifteen-year-old, post-coital baby.

Today, Sam wakes up to the plain fact that nothing has substantially changed. He didn't exactly expect to wake up as a different person, as someone cooler, as happier or more relaxed - but then again… _huh_.

Everybody is always so crazy about sex; how it's so life-changing and amazing and all that blablabla. And now he kind of. Did it. Didn't he? And he's still himself. Still not grown into his giant feet and hands, still not a single pubic hair in sight - still little Sam, Sammy.

Still in bed, he follows the contour of his lips, his chin; imagines it were the twins who touched him. The jut of his hip bones, down his groin, inwards to his thighs. The bottom of his balls and then behind. He rubs there after a little hesitation. It's dry now, not like when he did the exact same thing in the tree house with the twins snoring next to him. For a short blissful moment, he contemplates… but no. It's already past seven. He has to get up.

Outside, he looks over where the Winchesters took the "sold" sign inside yesterday evening. The car stands there like a giant, lazy animal, waiting for what it knows will come for sure. Sam grips the handles of his bike tighter. Well, he has to leave now, with or without them.

Not even twenty feet down the road, he hears their front door rush open and rips his head around. There they are, bold and wide and simply there; and Dean's eyes find him so fast that Sam didn't even brake yet when there's a bellow of his name through the morning dust covering Louisiana Street.

"Get in, kiddo. School bus's here." Dean smoothes his palm over the car's hood.

Sam has never pushed his bike onto the ground faster.

* * *

"My last year," Jensen grins over the passenger seat.

Thank God Lawrence has only one high school. Under the new circumstances though, Sam wishes it was farther away from their houses. In his opinion, this ride could last forever. They still haven't thrown him away. He's still in. Sam smiles over at Dean in the rear view mirror. "And you?"

"Nope," Dean simply says. His lips plop comedically at the "p".

Sam frowns. "'Nope'?"

Jensen turns to face the windshield again. "He dropped out," he explains.

"… Oh."

Under easy laughter, Dean swats his hand as if he wanted to chase away a fly. "Ah, no big deal, really. Got a job down Franklin Park Cir, a garage o' somethin'. I'm more of a paycheck kind of guy, y'know." The hand comes down on Jensen's shoulder, spans all over it, slides up his neck. "I've got the hands, he's got the brains. Fair game."

"You could've graduated, too," Jensen mutters.

The hand retreats. "Yeah, well, _somebody's_ gotta pay the bills, Jen."

Sam shifts in the backseat. "… What about your dad?"

Jensen laughs then, cocks his eyebrows hard enough so that even Sam can see it from the backseat. "Yeah, man, what about our _dad_?"

A short silence is enough to tell Sam that this was too far. Shit. "Dad served this country and this family, Jen, and the last thing he needs is another son who isn't grateful for that."

Jensen doesn't reply to that. During the bike ride yesterday, Sam learned a few little pieces of information here and there. One of the first things Dean brought up was their dad's military career in the Marines. Dean seems to be very proud of him. Now, Jensen's missing counterpart of affection reveals to be more than a coincidence.

"Anyway," Jensen sighs eventually. He places his elbow where the window is rolled down. "Countdown to college, I guess."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, _right_."

Sam watches Jensen tense and turn his head, can almost hear his retreat - but noting comes out of his mouth.

 

The car pulls to a stop in front of the school. Some heads are already turning their way. Sam feels heat rise into his face. What will they say if they see _him_ emerge from this stunning car together with this stunning guy, him, boring, nerdy Sam Wesson?

"Don't wait up on me," Dean tells him over the front seat, "Imma work late, sorry."

Oh. "Uh, no problem."

Jensen gets out of the car without another comment.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'goodbye' to you, _too_."

"See ya."

"Bye, kiddo."

Sam scrambles out of the door and waves one last time, but Dean is already busy with starting the engine. A little jog later, he is back by Jensen's side. As predicted, everybody is staring at them, or, more precisely, at Jensen. As predicted, Jensen could not be any more indifferent about the attention. "If- If you need help with anything, I-"

"I'm alright, Sam, thanks."

And just like that, with a polite smile and a pat on his shoulder, Sam is alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

Next day, Tuesday. The engine is already running and Sam gets in. Has the backseat been this wide yesterday already? Except for a "mornin'", there's nothing for him, no side glance, no nothing. Sam rubs his palms over the rough denim of his jeans.

At a red light, Dean lights himself a cigarette. The airstream blows it into Sam's hair, his eyes. He forces himself not to blink.

"Long hours again today, so, meh," Dean shrugs in front of the school, then drives off. Sam does not need to turn around to be sure that Jensen has already headed inside.

Is this how it is? Is this how it works? Okay, he, uh. He kind of expected that the twins would not exactly be head over heels for him, because that would just be a ridiculous thing to even _think_ of. But... _this_? Really?

Sam dozes through History, English, PE. His mind is somewhere else, hidden in deep smoke and hands and mouths that had told him that he was hot, that they liked him, that made him feel good and which he made feel good. Which _fucked_ him. He can turn it as much as he wants; it's definitely not _not_ fucking, not when it's below the belt. And, damn. They licked his _ass_ , for fuck's sake! Doesn't that call for at least the _tiniest_ bit of commitment?

He has no one to consult about this. Like the twins said, what happened was technically illegal, and Sam is not good at lying. If he tried to change the story into something vague and PG-rated, the guidance counselor would whiff out the truth faster than Sam would sweat through his t-shirt.

But maybe this is it. Maybe this _is_ how it goes, and Sam is just overreacting. A little bitch; that one certain kid at a birthday party covered in its own snot who unnerves every adult with its whining. He doesn't want to be that kid. He's had a long enough history of being that kid, and he's decided he's done with it. Not with the twins. Not anymore.

So, when he watches Jensen smooth his arm around Kelly's shoulders, how he makes her giggle with that stunning smile and a soft brush of lips over her temple, Sam does not storm out of the cafeteria to kick the nearest trashcan. No. He's a grown-up. He's mature. They said he was mature for his age. He is mature and he will sit here and have his lunch. He will have his lunch and not stare at Jensen who touches that girl so easily as if she was Sam. As if Sam was her. As if he could do this randomly, just turn on his affection for random people. As if Sam was random. As if it was a vain thing to do. As if it didn't mean anything.

No. Sam will have his lunch.

* * *

When he climbs into the backseat the following morning, Jensen's eyes linger on him for a while. Sam puts as little accusation in his eyes when he returns the gaze. As stupid as it is: somewhere in the deepest back of his head, he expects some kind of apology. At least a little something that assures him that they did not forget about him, that they are still aware that he is here, _right here_. Jensen looks away then, and Sam's turns to face the window.

Dean hums along to the radio and with his forehead against the cool glass, Sam could fall back asleep with it coating him like a lullaby. He wonders if Dean knows that his brother is sneaking into his classmate's panties, wonders if they tell each other stuff like that. In the tree house, there had been the mention of "I told you". They had talked about him, maybe when he was home and prepared the bikes, maybe when he stayed a bit ahead and let them chat with Patrick. Sam's eyes droop. They had talked about him. About him. _Him_. He wants to know what they said, what they discussed. Did they plan this? When did they decide to do these things with him? Did they enjoy it? Was he good? Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was so bad that they are put off now, that they can't wait for a chance to ditch him. Maybe they want him to act up so that they have a reason to expel him from this car, from them. The mere thought makes him twitch with need to prove himself.

If they gave him a chance, any chance - he'd take it.

But they don't. Dean ruffles through his own hair, yawns. He stretches when they exit the car, makes the tiniest wave into Sam's general direction. Sam tells him "bye" and walks away with a lax hanging set of shoulders. 

On Thursday morning, the Impala is nowhere to be seen. Sam hesitates, peers down the street, into the vague direction of their house. Nothing moves.

They left without him.

The bike ride leaves him sweaty for the first period. He sleeps through the next three, scrawls down a test during the fourth. The teacher scowls at him when Sam hands it in after only twenty minutes, but they both know she will return it with a fire-red "A" on the right top corner.

Curiosity lures him into the cafeteria. After crossing the hall, he forces himself to sit with his back to Jensen in the other corner so that he is physically unable to stare at his mouth all over Kelly's face. The PB&J sandwich that he brought tastes even staler than usually.

At the end of the day, Sam decides to let it go. It's of no use. He kind of knew this would happen right from the start, so, yeah. Without hurry, he unchains his bike, walks it all the way up to the sidewalk. Loneliness awaits him. Maybe it never left him.

Something like a spark, a little voice telling him to, he raises his head, lets his bangs flop out of his eyes. He sees the Impala, right in front of him, blinks, finds Dean's eyes, blinks again. If there is an opposite to getting a kick into your stomach, this is it.

That wicked grin. Oh God. That one's new. Sam adore-hates it right away. Dean's eyes swallow him from head to toe and Sam can practically _feel_ them running over his body. A cock of eyebrows. "Yo. My ride wins."

Sam's fingers shake when he re-sets the chain on his bike. He wipes them on his jeans, smoothes down his hair. Fuck. Suddenly, he's aware of how little he drank today and how utterly he forgot to apply deodorant this morning.

A silent chant of curses later and back at the car, Dean invites him into the passenger seat. It's like flying, really.

He pulls the door closed behind him. "Where's Jensen?"

Dean shrugs with his eyes focused somewhere far out of the windshield. "Our future Mr. President has very important things to do. Meaning: No clue, man."

"Oh."

"Eh, it's alright. Just my first free afternoon, _ever_. Like, literally. My first!" Dean laughs, and they're on the road by now. It could not be better. "But hey, I've got _you_ , don't I."

Okay. Maybe it _can_. Sam has to laugh at that, has no breath for it; feels his neck and back of ears flush red-hot. Yeah, he thinks, yeah. He's got _him_.

Once the car comes to a halt in front of the eighteen forty eight, Sam _knows_ he has to get out eventually. He has his hands in his lap though, because he doesn't _want_ to. Can't they just stay here for a little longer, just the two of them; making each other laugh and listen to each other's stories?

Sam stares at his knees, his backpack on top of them. As long as Dean doesn't tell him to, he won't move.

"Mind if I swing by?"

Immediately, Sam brakes into a smile, can't help it. He tosses his hair deeper into his eyes, hums "yeah, sure", feels Dean's eyes on him. Getting out is easy now, too easy with that motivation in front of him. He savors the sounds of steps behind him, the distant warmth in his back when Dean waits for him to unlock the door.

"Your mom's home?"

"Nah. She's at work." The only way the door will open is to apply that one certain tug whilst twisting the key. With years of practice, Sam aces it, of course. He steps in, toes his sneakers off in the hallway. While Dean mirrors his habit, Sam dares a short sneak peek into the fridge. Chinese takeout, Chinese takeout, a lonely slice of foil-wrapped pie, a halfway finished package of cheese, ketchup; one soda. He sighs, grabs the soda. Grocery lists are not exactly Mom's top priority (have never been).

Two glasses, and then he leads Dean upstairs, down the corridor; his room. He left the door open like he does most of the time. After all, it's not like there is anyone there to need alone-time from. The room is tidy, of course, like he left it this morning. That's probably the only good thing about not having much stuff - your room won't get too cluttered. Nevertheless, there's a certain nervousness creeping up Sam's spine now. He hasn't had anyone in here for God knows how long.

Dean examines the interior from a distance before he steps more into the middle of the room, slowly walks along everything as if this was a museum. Sam watches him with fascination before he catches himself in the act of it, shuffles to his desk and puts the glasses and soda down on it.

Behind him, Dean studies the posters above his bed. Star Wars, Blade Runner; his charts on STAIR project he kept after last year's science fair. Sam cringes. He doesn't know what's worse - fanboying over decade-old sci-fi movies or fanboying over the manufacturing of _actual_ robots. Probably the combination of both. Oh man.

Dean has his back turned to Sam, but he can see him nod to himself. "Han's always been my favorite," Sam hears, and has to lean against the wall to not melt into a puddle of relief and anxiety.

The bookshelf is next, and Sam groans before Dean even started to scan the many spines. "You don't, uh, it's- it's only boring stuff, really..."

That doesn't stop Dean, naturally, and Sam deflates. If the soda wouldn't upset his stomach so much, he'd contemplate pouring himself a glass, just to distract himself.

Dean makes a tiny approving sound. "You really _are_ Einstein, aren't you. Damn."

"It's nothing," Sam mumbles.

"Hey, don't sell yourself short, Sammy. I mean, Jen is kinda smart, okay, but this? His circuits would fuckin' _snap_. You read _all_ of those?"

"... Yeah."

"Damn. I dunno what to say, kiddo. I'm impressed!"

Sam could die. He could die right here, and it'd be okay. With those being his last words he's ever heard, it'd be okay. He keeps his "thank you" inside; doesn't want to sound too desperate.

"And you have a Wii! Oh my God!" The sudden excitement startles Sam, especially with Dean's down-right sprint to his tube TV. Crouched in front of it, his fingers are going through his little game collection so quickly that he's through with it even faster than Sam can circle and watch him. He's addressed with the same honest, open expression when Sam saw Dean call for Jensen for the first time, in front of the house: "We've got one, too. Nintendo's the _shit_!"

"Yeah," Sam nods. One of Mom's ex's feeble try to buy Sam's sympathy. Sue him, but he took the chance. The boyfriend might have left (and Sam doesn't even remember his damn name), but the console stayed.

Dean doesn't ask for permission to make himself comfortable on Sam's bed and Sam doesn't mind. He sits down at the foot while Dean's where a headboard would be if Sam's bed had one. Before he's even completely sprawling, Dean fishes that little silver case out of the back pocket of his loose jeans. Sam's heart takes a deep, deep leap, deep enough to feel it between his legs.

Dean looks up then, a usual cigarette (oh) in the corner of his mouth, lighter already hovering. "May I?"

Sam nods, presses his lips together. His hands squeeze the tingle out of his thighs.

The first blow of smoke makes it harder to breathe already. "Won't your mom be mad?"

Sam curses the hyperawareness at the scrape of hairs over his skin when he shakes his head. "I don't think she'll mind."

"Huh." Dean's eyes slide softer and stay on Sam, maybe somewhere around the mole next to his nose. Must be that damn mole. Fuck, Sam hates it. He rubs his nose, shies away from those eyes for a second. "Sounds like a cool mom to me. 'Not minding' her fifteen-year-old's room reeking of smoke."

Sam shrugs. "She's alright, I guess."

There is no air con in the house, but Sam is used to the heat. Usually, at least. It's different with another person around, moreover a smoking person. Moreover someone you know has no problem with touching your naked body. But undressing seems inappropriate, even if it'd just be the hoodie, he tells himself. The sounds of Dean's silent smoking remind Sam of the twins' nap, of that sweet afterglow between their bodies, all close and warm and still flying high. Even across the bed, Dean's deep breathing is so so loud, so real. Sam draws his fingers over the sides of his own thighs.

"'That your laptop?" Dean asks after some time. Sam likes this edge smoking gives to his voice, that rough scratch that almost makes his own throat itch when he hears it.

"Uh-hu," he says, looks over to his desk where it rests. _Helm_ , as Sam calls it; his most valuable possession. The fact that it was the first prize of a contest ("Innovative Sciences - Kids building our Future") is probably even better than knowing that if he'd wanted to legitimately buy it, his savings would've gotten him maybe as far as Helm's USB slot.

"Sweet, dude. Hey, can I have it for a sec? Lemme show you something."

Not too sure what he's worried about more - ashes in the keyboard or whatever (let's face it, probably _terrible_ ) plan Dean has in mind -, Sam retrieves Helm and hands it over cautiously. Thank God, at least Dean catches on with Sam's worried eyes and vice-like grip; he handles the device with surprisingly much grace. Sam knows that Dean is not stupid. As far as he can tell, they have a few things in common, actually: single parent, tendency towards adventures, questionable morals. And that coolness about Sam's obviously second- to fifth-hand possessions, the way that Dean doesn't stare at the holes in Sam's shoes and the loose seams in his clothes... They may drive their own car (and such a stunning one as well), but the twins certainly aren't too repelled by poverty. Dean didn't even flinch at the visibly peeled off library tags on the ninety nine percent of the bookshelf's contents.

And then Dean says, "I dun have one of my own," with his eyes glued to the screen, as if he knew exactly what Sam was thinking and wanted to offer him another clue; another "relax, we're in this together". His cigarette is gleaming in the trees' shadows that are engulfing Sam's room from two to nine o' clock every afternoon.

Sam blinks, sits right next to Dean's knee now. If he stretched his pinkie, it would be enough to touch.

"I always break stuff, so it'd be a waste, Jen says," Dean adds as if they both wouldn't know that this by far isn't the main reason. He holds the cig between fore- and middle finger and makes that little laugh he does when a smile is not enough at the memory of his twin. Sam loves that little laugh. "C'mere."

It takes a big amount of courage but Sam doesn't think about it long enough to let panic take over; just climbs and shifts where Dean gestures him to go. Side by side, pressed up close, Sam holds his breath even before he can see the screen. Dean hits "enter" and then curls his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulls him even closer, but never with much force. He doesn't need that with Sam and is all too aware of that.

Oh dear lord.

Sam's hand comes up to shield his eyes but stops midway on his mouth. The cursor moves with practice, giving Sam the impression that Dean knows exactly what he is looking for. Excitement mixes with horror while Sam's dick is pretty biased on one of those signals. His dick knows this bed. His dick knows Helm and the dirty corners of the internet.

What his dick does not know is an in-the-flesh body this close next to him. What his dick does not know is that, apparently, gay porn sites have it blast from zero to a hundred.

In a handful of clicks, Dean has a video running. The silver case is degraded to the post of an ashtray. While the two actors are heavily making out (naked, on a bed), Sam's mind is so blank that all he can think of is how grateful he is for his very strong firewall and antivirus software. Sorry, Helm.

"You ever watch stuff like this? With guys in it?"

He's pulled under that shoulder. Before he seriously strains his neck, Sam gives up and hesitantly lets his head drop against Dean's chest. The fit is surprisingly perfect. That doesn't matter too much though if you are about to chew your fucking fingers off. Sam gives a faint jerk to his head that hopefully looks like enough of a shake.

One of the guys looks a lot like Sam - slim, a bit lanky; tiny ass, hair that curls down up to the nape of his neck. The other sports a buzz cut, more muscles and has a tribal tattoo running from his left shoulder down to his arm. They're naked since the first second of the video, and Sam finds himself leaking precome into his boxer shorts at the close-up shot of two lube-shiny fingers sneaking their way into a picture book perfect asshole.

Sam squeezes his thighs together in an attempt to make his boner less obvious but that probably is lost ground by now. This close next to each other, Dean must have noticed it. Then again, that's probably what he expected to happen. Sam's breath comes faster with every minute, every cut from where tattoo guy sucks hickeys into his lookalike's neck down to where he is fingered open with a damn passion.

He is no saint. He _has_ seen porn before. Even anal, yeah, sure; you can't possibly avoid that stuff with how it's shoved into your face on most sites. But - and Sam somehow has to repeat that a lot to himself lately - _he is not gay_ , and up until now he did not even spend one single second wondering just how much joy one could earn by shoving something up their ass. The anal videos were mostly violent while Sam prefers softer ones; ones where the girl plays with her tits a lot (very important) and then maybe is convinced to lick her best friend's clit for a while (also not too neglectable).

He's a softie. He likes books and he likes Chillout music. Warm showers are nice. Sam likes to pet dogs. He likes girls with long hair whose smile can kill and who deserve someone carrying them bridal style to every possible and impossible destination. He likes nice perfumes; colognes. He likes Dean's body heat, the rise and fall of his belly, the thumb of his heart against Sam's ear. Maybe, he really really really enjoyed a tongue up his ass. Like a kiss. Sam likes kissing. And that _was_ a kiss, just... deeper. Right?

But those are _fingers_. Fingers are hard and bony and they prod and churn. His lookalike makes little breathless sounds when the angle changes, pushes his ass out farther to get the fingers deeper. He really looks like he is enjoying himself.

Sam swallows.

His own sweat slick-slides in his armpits when he shifts a bit, and he shudders at it. Dean's hand starts to move then. Little shifts become wider circles. Eventually, those fingers find the soft skin of his neck.

Sam jolts.

The fingers ease him, rub over his raging pulse. Sam stares at the screen where a candy-pink dick starts shoving inside next to one left-over finger.

Dean teases his fingers into Sam's hair. It's wild and pulls on its own, but Dean puts in extra effort to encourage it. Sam inhales deep and unconscious at a nudge of face against the side of his skull.

"Ever imagined doing any of that stuff?"

"No," he hears himself say.

"But it turns you on. To see it." Cigarette-rasp is even heavier in the vibration of a whisper.

Close-up of where his lookalike is fucked. The sounds are obscene. Sam's dick loves them.

"I... I dunno."

"Hm," Dean chuckles. A finger pokes under the collar of Sam's hoodie. The amount of sweat turns it even filthier. "You should take this off," Dean suggests into Sam's ear.

Sam doesn't think about it, doesn't question it. He shoves himself away until he can somewhat sit up - which rearranges his junk in his pants and now bulges them so obviously that it's almost of no consolation at all that Dean has already seen him naked. To get out of the thick hoodie is remarkably liberating. He pulls it over his head regardless of how it leaves his hair in a complete mess. Sam throws the unwanted piece of clothing halfway across the room without a real reason for the distance; feels a handful of drops of sweat pearl down his skin underneath the almost slicked-through t-shirt he wore underneath. He pats himself down to make it absorb at least a little more.

From behind him, Dean tugs at the hem of his shirt. "That too."

A beat, two, full of doubt and shame. He smells himself, all that teenage boy stink, and suddenly the shirt can't get off of his body fast enough. One last hasty wipe everywhere he can reach in his clumsiness, and Sam drops the shirt next to his bed.

Sam feels Dean's eyes on his back, the inflamed zits and those dark, almost black moles Sam knows are there, ignored and secret. He wraps his arms around himself before he lies back down, avoids Dean's eyes. He can feel his wrists thump with every rush of blood; that's how skinny they are, how close the blood vessels are underneath their surface. Sam hates them.

Dean's arm returns, so gentle that it's agonizing. Sam keeps his eyes forced on the screen, halfway zeros in on his lookalike's stretched asshole that takes a pounding like a pro. Which it is, probably, considering that those are actors performing. Everything about them is perfect. No goddamn asshole looks like thi-

Another hand tugs at his arm to loosen up the cross in front of his chest. Sam clutches himself tighter.

Dean's snickering is so soft in his hair, so warm. Sam can feel his dick twitch at it. "No need to be shy, Sammy."

That nickname. "I, uh... I'm..."

Dean squeezes harder and there is more hesitation until the sting is not worth it anymore. Sam releases the hold of his muscles. With his eyes still straight ahead, he lets Dean arrange his arms next to his body.

"Was that so hard now?" Dean hums. Sam can hear that grin.

"Chicken," Sam complaints.

"... What?"

On the screen, the banging is becoming frantic. It doesn't look like too much fun for his lookalike, except that it really fucking does make his dick drool into the sheets.

"I look like a _chicken_!" Sam bites. He's drowning in his own sweat, is about to cream his pants and his heart is beating to fast he can feel it in his teeth. It's not fair. It's not fair. "My chest. I hate it." He might cry. He might cry and completely embarrass himself - in front of _Dean_ , of all people.

Dean's thumb shoves over his left nipple.

"Well, I like it."

The world kind of stops. There is no weed, no mouth; Sam does not even see Dean's _face_ from how he keeps staring ahead. There's only that press into his chest, like a massage, as if Dean had the task of pushing his nipple inside-out.

Then, a pluck.

Sam's entire body jumps.

"Shit," Dean grits - and repeats.

One millisecond earlier and Sam wouldn't have been able to bite back a yelp. Helm's screen presents what Sam knows is called a "cream pie". The come is so thick and white that it's almost ridiculous... but oh. Damn. Is. This. Hot.

"Ah," Sam hiccups, then snaps his mouth shut so hard that his teeth clatter.

Dean's breath is hot against his shoulder. "Mommy's not home, genius. Be as loud as you want."

The video ends and Dean scoops down against Sam's side, until his head is at level with-

Sam watches it happen. Watches Dean's closed eyes, the easy drop of his jaw until his mouth has parted just enough for his thick, pink tongue to peek out; watches how he wraps his lips around his nipple and sucks it inside.

His tummy convulses, doesn't care if Dean's elbow digs into it like that. Sam tucks his head in, lets his chin touch the deep bow of his clavicles. He wants to roll into a ball and never come out of this room again, wants to keep this moment and sensation and heat and softness forever and ever and never let it go. Dean's thumb keeps working his left while his mouth busies himself over his right nipple. There's flat laps and mean little bites, and Sam squirms for every one of them with the heel of his palm pressed so hard into his dick that it _hurts_ , but fuck, he can't come, not like this, not from a little porn and having his nipples played with; no, no way.

Dean lets go after a while (but not before Sam is shaking all over), with his hair a little wilder where Sam couldn't keep his fingers out and his mouth and cheeks so pink; and he licks the corner of his mouth and looks up at Sam like a little kid that just shaved their little sibling's head and now expects praise for his incredibly creative work.

But Sam can only stare back at him, can only gasp for air and try not to cry at how wonderful all of this is.

Dean's grin widens. "Pants off."

No idea how, but Sam manages to wriggle out of his jeans and shorts. He feels Dean struggle with the same task right next to him and drops onto his back early enough to witness that first instinctive grip while Dean tosses the unwanted clothes out of sight.

Back on his side, Dean bumps his dick against Sam's hip. He's got his head propped up on his left arm and has no reserve about looking Sam up and down.

This is his own bed. He's been lying here, even naked, for many years now - but suddenly, nothing about it is familiar anymore. Sam's head has sunk so deep into the pillow that it pushes his hair like a halo back into his face. He feels his pulse in his belly, knows it twitches with it. Drying spit leaves his nipples cold and sticking out.

Sam waits with his lips all tight. Waits for Dean to finish observing his body squirm and tick and live, waits for Dean to move, to tell him what to do.

His dick gives a feeble jerk, and Dean slaps his one against Sam's skin a few times. He bites his lip, only makes it swell more obscenely. "'Bout to come?"

Sam dares to make an approving sound along what was supposed to be a nod, but probably wasn't clear enough.

Dean huffs, smiles. "Yeah. Looks like it, huh." Their eyes meet. "But not yet."

Sam clenches his buttcheeks. His nostrils expand with his troubled exhales.

A short pause, as if Dean was contemplating what to do. If Sam wouldn't see how utterly calm and sure Dean's eyes are, he would buy even _that_ facade, maybe.

"Hm," Dean makes.

Sam doesn't blink.

The sweetest smile is presented to him while a warm hand guides his own one around that cock that isn't Sam's. "How 'bout you get a little busy here."

He starts slow; very, very slow. The flutter of those lashes, the little slack of that mouth - Sam drinks it all up. "Tease," he is scolded, thus works it up to a steadier, harsher tug.

Dean is beautiful. It hurts to look at him, to hear and feel and smell him breathe, to have his firm, barely hairy thigh shoved up against Sam's own. It burns to have that palm wander over his body, all those ugly valleys and canyons it creates between ribs and bones and around his organs. The tables are turned around the wrong way because Dean almost looks like he is cherishing _Sam_ and not the other way around, slides his fingertips over Sam's skin just on the right side of not too-ticklish and yet still goosebump-popping.

Sam wants to make it good. He wants to give Dean everything, to make him feel how grateful he is to be worthy of this. A swipe of thumb over the bundle of nerves right underneath the crown has Dean groaning; the drag upwards over the dry slit stretches it.

Dean moves carefully so that Sam's hand doesn't have to go out of business - but it stutters in his movement anyway when Dean bends over Sam's stomach and dips his tongue right into the tiny concave of his belly button.

It's so strange. It's so so _strange_. His sweat must have pooled there. It must feel strange, that useless cave of skin with nowhere to go. Dean kisses it; licks again, brings his left hand up to Sam's right nipple and kneads it between thumb and first joint of his forefinger. Sam barely has enough control over himself to not grab at Dean's hair again.

Dean's necklace drags over his skin, that kind of creepy little amulet. It's a tad cold, but Sam couldn't be bothered now even if it was made out of damn _ice_. But there's something about the weight, about the drag of it. Like one of Dean's fingers.

Sam closes his eyes.

It goes on for a while like this, with Dean's cock heavy in his hand and his own orgasm always on the brink. But Dean never gets him there, always keeps him with one toenail in the here and now, right inside of that insanity. His hand moves rougher. He wants Dean to get worked up, too. Wants him to come from his hand jacking him off, wants to see his face from close up when he does. Every sound, every twitch of expression - Sam wants to witness it.

Dean starts groaning at some point. Little, pained noises that along with the first dribbles of precome tell Sam that he's on a good way. Suddenly, Dean's breath comes against Sam's neck, then against his cheek. He blinks against it, sees freckles like pixie dust under screwed shut eyes.

Dean kisses at the hollow of his cheek, over that tiny connection between earlobe and jaw. "Get a hold of that dick, baby. Hold, not tug. An' don't stop on mine."

Sam's exhale explodes from his lungs. He does as he's told, grabs himself hard at the base to keep himself from coming, avoids every contact with the tip.

"Good," Dean says.

A sudden pull later, Sam's leg is thrown over Dean's and leaves him spread like a frog. His heart stumbles, and then Dean shoves his hand into that wide space, presses close, closer; rubs so hard over his hole that all the sweat there almost makes that fingertip slide right in.

" _Now_ ," Sam hears.

He almost explodes from the inside out. His hand on himself is forgotten, abandoned; his dick doesn't care and his own come hits him on his cheek, chin, coats what could as well be his entire throat; his chest. Dean's finger doesn't press in but Sam can feel how the ring of muscle kisses that strange abuser, how it convulses with every contraction of his balls, his perineum. Sam gasps for air, but there isn't any.

"Ah, that's it. That's it, baby."

Sam sobs. It's too much. Too much.

At first, he thinks Dean is jumping him, rolling on top of him. But that body only hovers, every muscle taut and rippling and then Dean touches his mouth with the sweetest, faintest kiss, while he holds his breath and jerks himself to completion against Sam's belly.

There's chokes, and they're not from Sam. He can only stare, can only shake under all this tension, all this blissful relief, under the warm shots of milky slick that land on his skin and are rubbed in almost immediately afterwards. Dean's dick catches on Sam's navel, fills that, too. Sam can feel that shudder all the way up to Dean's lips, kisses them petal-soft.

Slowly, the waves stop coming. Dean's mouth hovers where it is for another moment before it retreats, slides down and to the side until Dean's face is buried in the nape of Sam's neck. Dean lets his hips drop and easily frames Sam's tiny hips with his knees like that. His spent but still hot dick presses itself into the mess it left on Sam's skin.

Sam's hands are no longer fists; mere loosely curled fingers without task like brackets around Dean's knees on the mattress.

"Yours is prettier, though," Dean eventually grumbles into the pillow. "Your ass, I mean."

Sam rolls his tongue over the ridges on the roof of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sam wants to say "thanks" again. It still isn't appropriate, is it.

 

Since this is a teenager's room, Dean actually finds enough tissues to make it possible for Sam to not ruin his entire beddings when he gets up. They dress, but Dean lies back down and so Sam does the same. It's easier now to lie this close, to even rest his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean doesn't curl his arm around him this time, though.

"You _do_ know you can always say 'fuck you, I'm out, you creep'. Do ya, kiddo?"

Sam stares at the ceiling. "Yeah," he hums. Then, he adds: "You're not a creep."

A chuckle, yawn. "If you say so. But, hey. This really alright with you, yeah? 'Cause I don't wanna force anything on you. I don't want to hurt you o' something."

"I know," Sam says.

"This is my favorite type of fun. Nice, uncomplicated fun. Healthy and nice. Our, I mean. _Our_ favorite type of fun. Twins are shady as fuck, Sam, just so you know."

He thinks he might be in good company. "It's alright."

"Yeah? Even if it's just me? 'Cause, actually, Jen's the good cop of this team." Sam hears the silver case, the lighter.

The initial draught always seems to be the deepest. Maybe it's like coming home after a long trip, after being outside all day; coming home and taking in all the good smells and memory in those first, blissful seconds. Sam wants to know what "home" smells like to Dean.

"Of course," he answers. _Just you is perfectly fine_.

A happy sound, a chuckle that dissolves into a cough. "You're makin' me blush here, Sammy." 

Again, the car is already gone. The sight of the lonely street ties Sam's chest up tight. When he remembers that his bike is still at school, he curses himself.

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand anything. Why does Dean do this? Why do the _twins_ do this? A nasty voice inside of his head makes Sam realize that Dean didn't apologize for not showing up yesterday. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

They don't owe him anything; no ride, not even sympathy - but at least that little respect that would have Sam turn to someone and at least let them _know_ that they will only show up when they feel like it.

 _Fuck_.

Sam walks and is late for class. He doesn't apologize to his teacher.

To his utter surprise, he runs into a very Kelly-less Jensen in the hallway when he is on the way to his locker. "Hey," Sam says.

Jensen's eyes dart up to Sam's. He looks just as surprised as Sam himself that he actually found the courage to address him. "... Hey," Jensen replies.

"How's, uh, how's it going? Everything alright?" Sam hasn't spoken to Jensen in days and it feels unfair since he spent the entire afternoon with his brother yesterday. He wants to make this right and puts his softest expression on, the one his grandma always used to reward with ridiculous amounts of candies. "I haven't seen you around much."

"Could be 'cause I'm _busy_ ," Jensen presses under a jolt of his eyebrows and pulls his locker open with more force than necessary. Sam startles at the bang of it. "New school 'n everythin', you know. Sorry. Oh, and Dean is, too, by the way."

Sam is frozen in place.

Jensen finishes up re-arranging his backpack, closes his locker and gives Sam a hefty pat on the shoulder along with a forced, tired smile. "Sorry, Sam. Hang in there, alright?"

"Al... alright."

"See ya."

Jensen doesn't exactly wait for Sam to return the goodbye.

Locker in his back, backpack halfway slouching down his shoulder, Sam has to focus before he can move again. What happened just now? What did he do wrong? So far, the twins had always been nice to him, or at least polite. This thing just now scratched at that line dividing "polite" from "spitting into one's face", hard. If Sam would have stood one step closer, the locker door would have smashed into his face.

It makes no sense.

 

On Saturday, Sam observes the street, even the _house_ , but nothing seems to be moving inside. The Impala is gone since Sam woke up, and he gets too tired to stay up and wait all night.

Sunday. Still no sign of anyone. Sam still has no clue what is going on or what he did to deserve this.

Somewhere around the afternoon, after every possible bit of homework and an unhealthy amount of staring into the Winchester's windows, Sam is sick and tired of his home. He rides his bike through town, doesn't exactly have a direction in mind, just keeps going. The airflow plays with his hair and brings well-needed chilling to his skin. The sun stands high and proud, and Sam wonders if he should head back home, undress and indulge in a full-frontal sunbath. With his luck, the twins would come back exactly then. He tightens his grip on the handlebars.

In the end, Sam doesn't head home.

Now, his bike looks pretty lonely all by itself in the grass to the roots of the giant tree. The tree house has never been this spacy. Sam lies down on his back, blinks against the ceiling. Everything still smells like weed. The blanket has lost the twins' scent, though.

Slowly, Sam lets his eyes slip closed. His fingertips run over his belly, catch around the navel which sticks out just a little bit from how flat his stomach is from underneath his t-shirt.

Hem of jeans, underwear.

A slow, deep exhale.

When he lets himself go, it's to the still (forever) bright-as-day memory of their kisses.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Heavy reminder** that this story is tagged with **"Dubious Consent"**. Stay safe, guys.

Too late to run down and get in, too early not to have enough time to clearly listen and take it in, Sam wakes up to the roar of the Impala's engine. He swallows, gets up.

In the kitchen, Mom chews through her high protein toasties with her nose deep in her phone.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Sam slaloms around her, fixes a bowl of cereal - with orange juice today, because the jug of milk is emptier than Sam's promises of "everything will be alright" to himself. They eat in silence.

At school, Jensen strides the halls as if nothing can touch him. Yeah, no fucking joke; that's not exactly a false advertisement. What makes Sam _keep_ staring though is Kelly's face when Jensen passes her - she looks as if she wanted to jump him in both the sexual and homicidal meaning. Jensen doesn't even _breathe_ into her direction while she cranes her neck up to the point where she has to accept that whatever is going on _is_ going on. And oh, how Sam can relate.

It strikes him then, a prick of needle where it shouldn't be.

_You're not the only one._

He rushes into the next classroom, but the thought keeps sticking to him like a piece of gum to his shoe. It's probably just a coincidence. This and that doesn't _have_ to have anything in common. Maybe Kelly fucked it up and now Jensen _legitimately_ stays away from her. Sam knows he'd regret causing something like that; thus explaining Kelly's devastated expression. Maybe this is it. Yeah. Probably is. Yeah.

Lunch has Jensen sitting at an entirely different table than last week - cheerleaders are swapped with drama club, and Sam remembers those kinds of drooped eyes from his tree house. Instead of Sam though, they are directed at last year's Hamlet, all while this year's Nora is halfway in his lap.

And Jensen waves at him.

Before mirroring the gesture a little more shaky and a little less confident, Sam has to look around himself to check if Jensen really meant him. But he did.

Jensen smiles, nods; then returns his attention to the others.

Sam eats his lunch.

When he keeps his head empty, it's fine. Good, fine, don't worry. It will pass. It always did. There's a logical explanation to this, and it's easy and polite and nothing to be flipping out over. It always was.

It's just the way they are. Eventually, they will run into each other and nothing will have changed. They'll still be nice to him, be interested in him. He just has to wait it out. It will happen. It will.

The next day, it doesn't. But that's okay. Sam knows better than to rely on the magic of miracles or good luck. There's school to keep him busy, he remembers, and startles teachers by participating in class. His classmates stare at him as if they'd never heard him speak, which is pretty rude, but, meh. At least nobody tries to make fun of him for his contributions.

Louisiana Street seems to take a lazy afternoon nap. Since Dean (presumably) is still at work, the car's spot is empty and leaves the Winchesters' place pretty unspectacular. Even though the property was sold off in a forced auction, it's still in a pretty decent shape. Yeah, sure, the house's front could make good use of a thorough grinding and the front yard is even more loveless than the Wessons', but still, judging by the forced auction cases they sometimes show on TV, it could be much much worse. Out of curiosity, Sam had a look around the house when it was open for potential buyers to inspect. It's not any worse than their place, actually; some doors even have been renewed. It's a nice place.

Sam wonders which room went to whom. If they share one? They probably share one. There is one with its windows out back to the garden, he remembers. Another, a bit smaller, darker, but right next to the bathroom. He tries to imagine them there, tries to imagine what the boxes they moved in held inside; what colors their bedding is, what pictures or posters they pinned on the walls.

It's pathetic. He's pathetic. Sam knows that, and on days like today, he doesn't mind it too much anymore. Almost lucid, he ascends to a higher level of some sort, to a place where strangers' eyes cannot reach him, where he doesn't mind and hate every little thing about himself. It's a peaceful place, even if it's not easy to get and stay in it.

In front of their house with his hands still on his bike's handlebars, his eyes and mind tracing their lives in this secret place Sam knows and yet absolutely doesn't know; here, he's in - until a barely there movement yanks him out where he least expects it.

Kitchen window. He blinks, zeros in.

A man in his late forties; dark hair, full beard, laser-like eyes. Maybe their dad. Probably their dad. Without a doubt their dad.

They stare each other down for a while without blinking until Sam can't stand it anymore, ducks his head and hurries the last few steps home. Yeah, definitely not a too simple person. Sam can see both the people the twins seem to see in their father. Of course, someone as outgoing as Dean would be proud of such a sharp dad. Of course, someone as quiet as Jensen would be repelled by the same.

Sam buries himself in homework. Just to avoid Helm which still has Dean's fingerprints on it, he works on some high scores on his gaming console until his eyes fall closed.

Thursday. They're waiting for him on the sidewalk, backseat door already open, generic classic rock station on low volume in order not to wake up the entire street. They're _waiting_ for him.

With his heart beating up to his throat, Sam can barely get out the "morning" and has a coughing fit over the two (two!) sets of smiling faces directed at him. He gets a response back from both twins and fastens his seatbelt.

Dean's eyes are wild. As much as Sam knows he should remind him to watch the street while driving, he cannot get himself to peel those eyes off of his reflection in the rear view.

"Wanna come over tomorrow?"

If they know what this does to him, they're monsters. Terrible, torturous monsters that make him feel more alive than ever in these past fifteen years of nothing.

"'Cause Dad's always out on Fridays, you know," Dean adds.

Jensen pulses with a cough of a laugh.

"Just you an' us, hangin' out a bit. Whatcha say, huh?"

It's all been worth it. The worries and the doubts, the bitten insides of his mouth. Sam knew it would.

"That'd- that'd be cool. Yeah. Sure."

The twins' smiles don't fade. "Cool," Jensen says.

For the first time in his life, Sam witnesses that feeling when it can't be Friday night soon enough.

* * *

 No, obviously it's not enough that Jensen talked him up on the way out. No, now that Sam walked with him all the way out here, the Impala and Dean are waiting for them in all their glory.

"Get in, losers." They do.

The interior smells of sweat and motor oil. Dean must have come straight from work. Maybe he's worn these clothes underneath an overall, Sam imagines - they're clean but for sweat stains. Faint smears of black on Dean's neck and forearms indicate a still pending need for a shower.

"No work today?"

A patronizing roll of eyes. "Try 'reducin' overtime'."

"Huh." Jensen chuckles it.

Dean's hand roughens through his twin's hair. " _Anyways_." His hand remains lingering around Jensen's neck. "Anyone hungry?" A quick glance to Sam in the rear view. "Anyone able to recommend a place?"

Directions and (hopefully exaggerated) stories from the garage later, they find themselves nestled in a booth of a diner Sam used to be taken out to by Uncle Doug a lot when he was younger; until Doug re-married and moved towns. The place still looks the same and even if the menu got a new design, the choice of dishes hasn't changed either.

Dean slides in next to Jensen and eyes the offers together with him. The smell in here is breathtaking and has Sam's mouth water; he knows without thinking twice what he would like to order. But lunch money was spent on lunch, and there is nothing left in his pockets. Sam folds his hands in his lap.

"Hey." At a flick of fingers, Sam's attention snaps to Dean who looks at him under raised eyebrows. "My treat. Don't hold back." Ah, no, that isn't neces- But Dean is faster. "And nuh-uh, don't gimme that look, kiddo; it's my _apologies_ for lately. You know, not showing up 'n shit. So, please. I owe you."

He tries hard not to sigh in relief. It feels so so so good to hear it, to finally hear it; he's almost forgotten about it, actually. A smile in return, a wide chest; so much air. "Okay."

"You guys ready?"

Sam's always liked this place's uniforms. Judged by the unanimously spark in the twins' eyes, they are sharing his opinion.

"Sure are, sweetheart," Dean beams. Sam blushes. The guy makes it - looking straight into the eyes of a cute girl without losing consciousness - look so easy. "My brother here will have the steak, fries on the side. Sam?"

All eyes on him and he wants to die. But he can do this. "Uh, the- the Chicken Club. Thanks."

She spares him a smile after scribbling down his order. "You got it."

"And for me: one classic cheese burger. Onion rings, please, uh, _Kimmy_. Oh, and a coke for everyone."

Sam's eyes slide over the little name tag on her chest. Clever. She looks like she thinks the same. "You can call me K."

Dean's tongue darts out just far enough to both give off its pink and wet Dean's lip for his tooth to scrape over it smoother. Kim observes it probably a little less obviously than Sam does. "Okay, K."

"Drinks'll be right up," Kim announces as she turns on her heels.

Jensen whistles into the hollow of his hands and smirks over to Sam. "Not the only thing that's up."

"Fuck," Dean chuckles.

Sam opens his mouth to laugh along, but there is nothing coming out.

When she brings their drinks, she doesn't miss to lean into Dean's space while placing Jensen's glass in front of him. Everyone says "thanks", but nobody's is as sweet as Dean's. The food arrives not too much later and everyone digs in. Dean doesn't make much of a mystery about his opinion on his meal; in fact, his moans seem exaggerated for comedic effect. Nevertheless, Sam smiles for it, for the happy grin on Dean's stuffed face. The sandwich tastes just as good as Sam remembers. So much times lies between then and now, between grade school and high school, between not understanding anything and understanding way too much. It's a nice change to find little things that stay the same.

Halfway through his meal, Dean gets up. He taps his fore- and middle finger on the table. "Be back in a few." It's directed at no one in particular, but Jensen rolls his eyes.

Sam watches Dean march right up the counter and then lean over it to get just a little closer to Kim. Judging by the direction she points to, he asked for the restrooms. Dean goes for it.

After a few beats, Kim follows.

Sam's eyes snap down onto his plate so fast it startles him.

"Everythin' alright?"

He fidgets with the sandwich in his hands, feels Jensen's eyes on him. "Uh- uhm, yeah." Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it.

Silence between them all but for the relentless movement of cutlery on Jensen's plate.

Dean comes back after what could have been five minutes or a decade. He slips back into his place with slack limbs; smells of soap. Sam doesn't even try to make eye contact. Not now. Some magical way, he manages to get through his food without choking on it.

* * *

 They drive and drive and drive along Kansas Turnpike with no destination in mind. The twins tell him about pranks they pulled when they were younger, about their vacations at Uncle Bobby's, and he tells them more about Doug in return. They are curious about what it's like to have grandparents and Sam lists everything he can remember, from Nana's cooking skills up to that time he had to help Grandpa get up when he broke his hip.

"Old people smell weird" is Dean's comment on the whole issue.

Jensen shoves his elbow into his ribs for that, and Dean laughs.

Sam smiles to himself through it all, sprawled all over the backseat without his seat belt on (shoes off, naturally, because these are leather seats and Dean didn't have to remind him), head propped against the window frame. It's like a road trip ( _is_ one), _and he's part of it_ , and his stomach is full and relaxed and the twins are there and the atmosphere is just so _good_ between the three of them. It's almost dark at this point, but nobody is especially eager to head home yet. One dim reminder of his curfew on school days flashes through Sam's mind... but it doesn't last long. He's never had a chance to break it yet and, at this point, if he is honest with himself, Mom probably wouldn't call him out on it. If she'd even notice.

Clinton Lake is wide and quiet when they pull up in front of it; a little distant from the usual car spots, because this here isn't an official one. Not one at all, to be exact, but when a car fits somewhere, that's enough of a justification.

For a while, all there is is the movement of the trees in the wind, of the water surface being upturned into small peaks; not enough for real waves. The radio is turned down low, but the contrast of The Cars against what surrounds them is the perfect twist to it all; as if this was all laid out specifically for them - the air, the water, this car, this day, this moment.

Sam has his head propped on his arms on top of the backs of the front seats. Like this, he can share the view they have, could touch them if he reached out, could just dig his fingers into their hair and pull them close, kiss them, climb into the front to them. Those are only ideas though; pretty wild ideas too when he considers how he is too shy to even say a single damn word without being addressed first. But dreaming with them so close by is enough.

They are great. They are so so great. They are clever, funny and serious in the right moments, never out of control, always aware of what they are doing and yet making it look effortless. Sam could listen to endless tales of shotguns and tag and hide in between car wrecks, could stare forever into Dean's childlike face when he recites it all, into Jensen's ocean-deep eyes when he contributes the details Dean missed. And they take him along. He is allowed to be here, to be part of it all. Him, out of everyone; not Kelly, not Kim - _Sam_.

Dean's hand is so gentle in its touch to Jensen's thigh that Sam actually is surprised at the lack of a bright grin from either of the twins. Sam bats the thought away; surely, Jensen will swat it away any minute.

The hand squeezes, ever-so slightly, but Sam notices it in the corner of his eyes.

Jensen raises his hand then - but instead of chasing Dean's away, he lets it cover it and slip their fingers together until they are entwined on top of his thigh.

Then, Dean turns his head, smiles; and Jensen mirrors it.

Sam doesn't understand until they kiss. He isn't too sure he understands _that_ , either.

There could be a tornado outside on the lake and Sam wouldn't notice. All he can see is Dean and Jensen; Dean kissing Jensen, Jensen kissing back. Everything about them shifts, falls to pieces, rearranges.

Sam holds his breath, can't look away. For a second, he hopes this is just a joke - but then again, this looks to familiar, feels too deep to pass as one.

Could he have seen it before? Could he have guessed it if he just had thought clear or distorted enough?

Sam wishes he would recoil. They're _brothers_ , for fuck's sake; this is not _supposed_ to be happening; they are not _supposed_ to be like that with each other. The mere thought alone, it's-

But Sam doesn't recoil. He stares, watches, takes in. Blood doesn't freeze in his veins, rather boils and bubbles its way into every dark corner of his body.

Something in his mind whispers a _yes_ , and it won't get lost. _Yes, this is happening. Yes - and please stop holding on to this sensation of being scandalized, it's pathetic, really - it fits. It just_ fits _. They_ are _like this. You don't get it, of course you don't, but,_ fuck _, this is the most beautiful car crash you've ever seen._

Dean's wrecked exhale misses the corner of Jensen's mouth and brushes Sam's naked forearm. The goose bumps make every hair on his body stand straight.

It's- No, it's-

Sam's back collides with the backseat and he still can't rip his eyes off them. He wants to get out, has to get out, he-

Jensen's eyes fly open then; Dean's mouth still on his one, hint of pink lips where they part to let a tongue slip in between them. They pierce right through Sam whose breath gets stuck somewhere in his chest. Then, Jensen breaks away from his brother.

What there is is not a smile, not really. Flatter, sadder. Something about it makes Sam question if he knows anything at all about the twins. Jensen looks like a completely different person.

"What's wrong?" he croaks.

Breath finds Sam again, rattles through his lungs and makes his head spin with oxygen. He wants to say "I don't know", because that's the only thing he _does_ know.

Dean's eyes swim, then pin Sam down as well. Disorientated, confused; different. Why are they so _different_ all of a sudden? He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be seeing this. He doesn't belong here.

Through wind and lake and silence and radio, Jensen bursts with what probably is laughter; Sam has no idea. Suddenly, the passenger door is open, then the one to Sam's right. Suddenly, Sam is flat on his back with Jensen looming over him, close enough to share breath, to taste onion rings on his own tongue. Jensen searches him with eyes and hands, roams over his chest. His hands are warm and damp and make Sam seize up and melt at the same time.

"You had no idea, hadn't you? You really are so much like him; fuck."

The press of Jensen's mouth comes heavy on Sam's, almost suffocating.

The car groans, shifts. Jensen huffs into Sam's mouth with the added weight of his brother on his back, slides his tongue over teeth, gums. A yank goes through Jensen and Sam can feel his breath hitch in his chest. More movement, rustling of fabric. "Not- not with the kid around, Dee, I-"

"I ain't a kid!" Sam doesn't know why he says it, how he says it. His own voice neither sounds nor feels right in his throat.

"You heard him," Dean says from somewhere above where Sam can't see, "He can take it."

Take what? No, nononono; _what_?

A wet sound, and then Jensen grunts against Sam's cheek.

Sam blinks, tries to remember how to breathe, tries not to squirm against the new pressure of Jensen's groin coming down against Sam's own. If he tried to convince himself of not having a hard-on from whatever just happened and still happens in front of him before, it is a thing of the past _now_.

"Remember the vid I showed you, Sammy? Wanna see the real thing?"

Heat washes through his body in one giant wave; maybe he makes a dry sound at the abruptness of it, maybe succeeds in keeping it inside.

"What vid?" Jensen cackles against Sam's skin with his voice all tight and Sam _knows_ why, _oh Jesus fucking Christ_. "Don't tell me you showed him porn. Dee, you-"

Sam doesn't need to see any of it. He can tell by the faint outlines of their faces, by Jensen's breathing and its sudden stop, the gallop of it soon afterwards; by Dean's groan and the weight crushing him underneath them. Jensen whimpers, and this time, Sam doesn't keep his own one in, either.

He presses his eyes shut, can't stop imagining it. Like in the video. Dean is fucking his brother, just like in the video.

Jensen finds his lips again and fights his way inside when Sam tries to escape it at first. Like in the tree house, Sam is shushed oh-so sweetly, feels Jensen's bottom lip tremble against his skin, his jaw, cheek, neck. Every shove from Dean makes the car sway and sends Jensen's body harder against Sam's, punches every breath from Sam in the rhythm of Jensen's whimpers, as if he himself was the one who-

Sam clutches at Jensen's t-shirt, ignores the possibility of his nails scratching skin in their wake; he lets their mouths connect and groans at the pain of colliding teeth. He needs to feel, to, to just- just not-

"God," Dean moans under his breath, and Sam feels the rough thrusts of emphasis on every single word, "Missed this so fuckin' much, Jen; fuck!"

Jensen's fists scramble for support, find the car door and Sam's shoulder.

"M-me too," Jensen chokes.

Everything is loud, so so loud around Sam, so hot around him, crushing him, devouring him. It's too much but not enough, Jensen's body hot and heavy and picture-perfect jostling over Sam's dick, hard enough to chafe the hard line of the zipper right into all the wrong places; but _fuck_ , it's too perfect and good and terrible. Their voices echo in his ears, in the narrow space they share in the backseat; probably turning the windows all foggy with condensation, and Sam can smell them both, feel them both, vibrates with the pulse of the two of them.

Jensen's voice breaks at a particularly harsh thrust, and Sam's orgasm takes him by surprise. His efforts to heave himself off of the seat are more than futile in his position, so he pants through it all, can't escape the on-off pressure on his dick that makes him lose it over and over until everything slows and finally calms down after God knows how long.

Jensen licks into his open mouth with a smile, runs his fingers over the sweaty pulse point on Sam's neck. Sam opens his eyes just in time to see Dean lean in to kiss Jensen's neck, nuzzle his ear, into his hair. He still can't see Dean's face; hasn't since earlier in the front seat.

His throat clicks with a dry swallow.

Sam closes his eyes again until the ringing in his ears has stopped.

Climbing into the car is not as easy after last night, but Sam tries not to let it show.

A raised eyebrow in the rear view. "You alright, kiddo?"

Uh. Maybe he's not very good with that "not letting it show" business.

But honestly: what do they expect? Yeah, sure, all green. You guys are akin, but hey, live and let live, right. Yeah. No. It's not that easy. Sam still hasn't wrapped his mind around it.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Sam lies.

Jensen turns to face him then, zeros in on Sam's face and makes him blush under the blatant attention. After a moment, he says, "If you, uh. After last night. If you don't wanna come over today because of that... that's alright. We understand."

"N-no!" It's out before Sam's thought about it, and when he realizes it's too late. Two sets of eyes visibly widen and his heart misses a beat. Shit. This honest desperation will be the nail to his coffin one day. Sam fumbles with a zipper on his backpack while struggling for enough air to speak. "It's, uh, I mean - it's okay. I'd still like to come over. If that's okay."

Their eyes soften then; Dean's mouth curls into a wide smile. Jensen throws his head back in a laugh. "Shit, Dee. You sure have a good eye for the pervs."

He wants to protest, because no, that's not his motivation for this; he-

Dean's hand ruffles his hair hard and gives his head a little tug downwards, as if Sam would have nodded. "Birds of a feather...!"

During the ride, Sam clings to his backpack a little closer than he would have needed in order to keep it from sliding down his knees. In the end, this is what he wanted, right? He really wants to see their room, their home. He wants to be part of it. They opened up to him so much already; he should be grateful for their trust. Surely they don't hawk _that_ around too easily with just anyone, right? Jensen looked so downhearted when he considered Sam ditching them because of _that_. It's special to them, important. Maybe Sam just has to open up more, be less of a conservative about... _that_.

Yeah. He just has to try hard enough. They think he can handle it - and he doesn't want to disappoint.

* * *

 Turns out the twins occupied neither of the rooms Sam had considered - they chose the attic.

Turns out there are no posters to identify, no shelves to scan. Except for a TV unit, there is no furniture, not even a bed. A mattress on the floor is their sofa and, obviously, the place where the twins sleep. The bedding is thin from too many washings. Open moving boxes here and there present peeks of clothing, and a stack of books serves as a slightly elevated nightstand for a single tiny lamp.

Sam spotted some of Jensen's school supplies, a magazine about what seems to be engineering; then again a selection of skin mags, a sparsely cleaned ashtray. Nothing seems to match. Hadn't they said there was more stuff coming in some kind of van?

But they didn't ask _him_ about his stuff, didn't even blink at his clothes, his shoes. He won't be rude. He won't ask.

He brought his controller for the Wii, had a throughout shower and hoped they would have more food at home than he had. Dean had greeted him at the door with an already opened beer in his hand, a lopsided smile on his face and a soft shine of sweat on his forehead; clothed in a mushy-gray sleeveless shirt and Bermuda shorts. In a matter of seconds, Sam's arms had been filled with several bags of snacks and a beer of his own. When he nipped at it for the first time, he tried not to make it look like he didn't know what to expect in front of the twins. To be honest: he doesn't exactly enjoy the taste. Then again, the attic is not exactly well temperature-controlled, and the beer came more or less straight from the fridge. The malt is addictively refreshing and before he knows it, half his bottle is gone.

As far as gaming skills are concerned, Sam hadn't expected them to be too bad. In fact, though, they are practically slaying him. It's a hard fight over every single round, even the ones whose high scores Sam broke easily. And here he was, thinking his loneliness-induced hours in front of the damn game would have a chance to finally pay off. Nope.

Dean swears and yells without restraint from the very beginning. With more beer, Sam gets braver, too, and barks his first "SHIT" over fucking _Mushroom Gorge_. It's out before he processed it is and hears laughter he can't assign. When he can, he laughs along.

Smoke from Dean's endless chain of cigarettes crank the temperature up another notch, and while Jensen strips himself of his t-shirt, Sam sticks to repeatedly running the back of his hand over his sweat damp upper lip. Jensen's hand disappears in the almost empty bag of Doritos, and then something attracts Sam's attention from the corner of his eye.

It's a necklace. Silver, with a key dangling from it. Sam hasn't seen it before... has he? Maybe the chain, yeah, but the rest always had been buried underneath his shirts.

Could it be the counterpart to Dean's amulet? But what could a figurine and a key have in common? It _must_ have something to do with Dean though, there is just no other possibility.

A certain scent fills Sam with nostalgia. Yeah, that's no ordinary cig in Dean's hand; yeah, the silver case is wide open and its contents are splayed rather carelessly on the ground next to the bed. Sam watches how Dean lights it, sucks until the tip is gleaming in the falling darkness around them. Eyes slip to him just when he is licking his lips, and Dean snickers while Jensen is cheering over his absolutely bestowed first place.

With enough beer in him to make every movement feel smooth, Sam doesn't feel to conscious about shuffling a little closer to his right, to Dean, doesn't think about how far his collar bones peek out from underneath his skin in this leaned-back position. He nods towards Dean's hand. "Can I?"

Dean's face slowly morphs into a sneer and he raises a brow over his frown. Instead of passing it to Sam, he hands the joint right over his outstretched hand into Jensen's fingers. "Believe me, kid: you dun wanna mix pot 'n booze."

"But _you_ do it!"

"Yeah. 'Cause I actually _know_ what I'm doing."

Sam rolls his eyes. Is he honestly being moralized by _Dean Winchester_? Instead of giving it another useless try, he takes another few gulps from the beer. The taste is getting less and less dominant. With how it is now, Sam could easily drink another bottle. Or two. God, it _is_ hot in here.

"Go ahead," Jensen hums, "There's more in the fridge."

Another handful of quick sips and the bottle is empty. Dean's bump against Sam's shoulder makes it slosh around in his belly. "Atta boy!" Dean leans in on him then, presses a kiss into his hair and gets up. Sam's throat makes a funny noise and he rubs his hand into his bangs to make the strange tingle underneath his skin go away. His bottle is snatched from his hand, but that's alright. "I'll get you a new one."

"Okay," Sam says.

"Me too!"

"Yeah yeah, let an old man do all the dirty work."

Sam and Jensen laugh in union, but only Jensen gets a kick against his hip. "Don't get lost!"

"Bitch!" the corridor barks.

Still, Sam's eyes are fixated on the joint. He feels great. There's no need to worry, right? Only a little surely wouldn't do much harm. He rolls his bottom lip in between his teeth, flicks his gaze up from drug and into the void of Jensen's eyes. Last time, he hadn't really been able to pay attention to it, but don't they say the pupils will dilate? Maybe it takes a little longer to work. Jensen smokes deep and slow. Where there's usually a shirt, his skin is pale without a single inch that isn't covered in freckles. In the strange light from the TV in front of them, Jensen could be part of a painting.

Without much of a ceremony, Jensen's head droops to the side until it leans on Sam's shoulder. Even though it's heavy and warm, Sam doesn't feel the need to move away from it. "Which course now, huh, Sammy?" His voice is a lot like Dean's, of course, especially when he is speaking this low. But Sam is starting to make out the little differences.

Sam tilts his head until it's touching Jensen's. They choose the course like that (DK's Jungle Parkway) but don't get too far until Dean is jogging and falling back in place with an exhausted huff. Sam cranes his neck to be able to watch the screen over Dean retrieving the joint across his face. He jolts at the sensation of ice cold bottle against his bare arm and Waluigi slides right into that banana peel. "FUCK!"

Jensen laughs without any reserve, and Dean's coughs are heavy with smoke.

Even more determined to still make this race, Sam lurches into an upright position, eyes stuck on the screen, his fingers like vices around the controller. In the far corner of his vision, he sees the bottle and Dean appear, the latter holding the first to his mouth.

"Drink."

Dean presses the bottle against Sam's lips and tilts it until Sam has no other choice but to swallow the rushes of beer. No idea how, but he still manages to score first place like that. The bottle leaves and Jensen's knee rams itself into Sam's thigh, but it's all worth it. "Ha!" He's earned this grin, the rush of endorphins and the sweet sweet taste of victory. Back against the wall and in between the brothers, he's maybe moved too fast - he's a little dizzy from the impact. He blinks, huffs a surprised sound. Is this how it feels like to be drunk?

The new bottle finds its way into his hand, but Dean pulls it away just when Sam wants to curl his fingers around it. Irritated, he wants to protest - but then gets sidetracked by that damn lip bite. "Nuh-uh," Dean grins. He gives a nod towards Sam's chest. "Shirt off. I'm breakin' a sweat just _seeing_ you completely clothed in our two hundred degrees up here."

Sam takes a measured five seconds to scowl, to let that spark in Dean's eyes sink in real good; to let it push him farther. It works. He swings upright once more to wrestle the drenched shirt over his head, wipes himself down; just like he did when it had only been the two of them. Just like back then, he chucks it away and slumps back in place. The beer really really helps. He almost doesn't shake when he reaches for the bottle, now actually gets it handed to him. Dean's eyes don't leave him, even over Jensen handing him the joint. It's Sam who eventually breaks the eye contact over the excuse of a chug of beer.

Being topless kind of helps against the temperatures... but being in the middle of _them_ , so close their arms and shoulders are touching, is rather counterproductive. Even though it's cold in Sam's mouth, the beer fills his stomach with a cozy warmth. Another gulp, a swipe of forearm over forehead before Sam tucks the bottle in between his thighs to get a hold of his controller. "Next," he demands.

"You got it." Jensen guides the game through the dialogue that leads to another race.

"Hm." Dean turns his head to avoid blowing smoke straight into Sam's face and rearranges into a more stable position. His elbow nudges Sam's. "Tell you what: Truth Or Dare, Kart edition. Winner gets to ask whoever."

Sam's face lights up. "Okay." He can do this. He _wants_ to do this. This chance to maybe hopefully get a fragment of all the questions he has answered is too good to pass.

The first lap is rough, but he's ahead of the field in the second. He's so deep in his concentration that the Blue Shell doesn't even make him curse, rather makes him shake with the urge to smash his controller into the next best wall. They're lucky he is this well behaved.

Yoshi - Dean - finishes first and Sam grits his teeth.

" _So_ ," Sam hears. He avoids peeling his eyes from the screen. Actually, he doesn't even need to look, because they are so close that every movement can be _felt_. Dean is leaning back into the pillowed wall, takes another hit. The smoke blows softly over Sam's shoulder.

"Kiss us," Dean says.

It's close to a miracle how this bottle still hasn't exploded from the pressure Sam's thighs put on it. When he turns his face towards Dean, he is met with a smile so sweet that a kid wearing it would be found guilty of whatever shenanigans it caused right on the fucking spot. Sam feels his lips peel apart (when had they become this dry?), can feel the sound vibrate in his throat, but his mouth won't spill the words he wants to say.

Dean splutters a laugh. "What? C'mon, make a move. I din' make the rules."

(Yeah, except that you _did_.) _He's_ supposed to...? _He_ should move? Oh God. That's new. And not too pleasant news either. Every nerve is thrumming with nervousness now and Sam can feel the breakout of sweat on the slick white controller still clutched in his fingers. From his left, fingertips start tapping up his shoulder, his neck. Jensen.

"Waitin', Sammy."

Heavier than he has ever been before, Sam lifts and turns himself until the position is just close enough to "right". This is new, and so so so uncomfortable. Why does _he_ have to move? This is way harder than they make it look like when they do it to him, for fuck's sake. They should know he won't be too good at that.

Dean's eyes stay wide and curious up to the very end; up to the point where Sam rushes through the last few parts of inches left between their mouths. Then, Sam presses his eyes shut and probably wouldn't see much anyway from this close up.

It's quite different when he can control the pressure, he finds out. When he goes really slow, Dean's lips give in _so_ much, as if they were pillows. Warm and dry from smoking, they feel like heaven. Sam lets out a breath he didn't know he held in, and the tip of Dean's tongue gives a playful flick to his upper lip that he chases after without a second thought. Dean's mouth tastes like smoke and fire and weed, sour and slick and then salty from all the chips he ate.

Sam pulls back and doesn't actually need that hand on his shoulder pressing and guiding him the other way, would have done it just as soon without it. Jensen cranes his neck a bit but leaves his mouth slack for Sam to kiss, hums into Sam's mouth with the last trace of a hit. Sam's lungs welcome it like a good old friend.

Dean's leg pushes tighter against Sam's. "Next round."

Again, but under the influence of another not-too slight raise of his heart rate, Sam tries his best - and fails again. This time, he curses out loud. The exaggerated coo he gets from Dean who scored second place doesn't exactly comfort him.

Jensen hands the joint to his brother after another deep inhale. "Let Dean feel you up while you answer me... hm, let's see... three questions."

"Wha- That's not-" Dean tugs his leg over his own and Sam can barely get a hold of the bottle quick enough before it tips and spills over them and the bed. Before he knows, Dean's hand between his legs make every joint in his body turn to jelly.

"Three. Questions," Jensen repeats, right into the nape of his neck while Dean snickers into Sam's hair from the other side. A click of tongue. "Number one. When you saw us for the first time... what was your first impression?"

Dean's hand is a dead weight right on Sam's dick, warm and damp and just right. It shouldn't have as much of an effect on him as it does. "I, uh." He swallows, tries to untangle the knots in his tongue. "I thought you were... really cool."

"'Cool'!" Dean mocks in a scandalized laugh. Humiliation kicks right in for Sam but is immediately overshadowed by a hefty squeeze to what now is his half-hard dick.

Sam jolts. He should have known the evening would go into this direction. If he was honest with himself, he would maybe have to admit that he _did_ know. Maybe even _hoped_ it would. His fingers dig harder into glass and plastic.

"Second." Jensen's lips trace the tendons in his neck. Sam feels him smile - which is more of a death sentence than it is a dawn of hope. "Were you aware this here would happen when we invited you over?"

That's not fair. Can they read minds? Oh God, maybe they _can_ read minds. "I... I dun- _uh_!" The tug is more painful than it is anything else.

"Better not lie with your junk in someone's hand, kiddo."

Sam winces.

"Let's try that again."

"I, uh-" A softer touch. "I... I _guess_ ; y-yeah..."

"Good boy."

Dean jerks him one... two... three times, all slow, all through his jeans and underwear, but oh God, is it _good_.

"Last question. See? Now that wasn't so bad, was it."

He makes a move to shake his head but gives up halfway through.

"Number three."

Fingers draw up his sternum and outline his collar bone. When Jensen kisses his neck, he rubs two of his fingertips over Sam's nipple. Even without the counterweight of Dean's palm, Sam would have known his dick gave a twitch at that.

Jensen chuckles. "On a scale from one to ten - how jealous were you of that girl in that diner?"

" _Ah_." The fingers pinch and the hand presses down. He wants to pull his legs closed but Dean holds him open by his thigh. Sam could as well be naked, could as well have a spotlight and a dozen cameras on him. He tries to control his breathing, to keep his voice from pitching. After clearing his throat, he's more hoarse then before. Every syllable is quieter than the previous one when he mutters, "A. Maybe a... a s...ev... seven?"

The heel of Dean's palm rubs over the length of Sam's dick while he hums into his ear. "Aw, that's so cute of you, sweetheart." Dean nuzzles his ear, his neck. The suction of that kiss right there make Sam bolt up into Jensen's relentless fingers.

They are priceless. It's been, what, half an hour that he's here? And he's already close to tears. And an orgasm. Probably both. Shit. He wants to crawl under this cover they're sprawling on and never come out, wants them to touch him and leave him alone and just let him die in peace and never ever stop making his stomach turn.

"She din't even suck cock half as good as you though."

And then, they're off of him completely yet again. Now, Sam really is going to cry.

"Next time you lose, those jeans're coming off."

The controller trembles in his sweaty fingers. A swig of beer makes it better, takes him back with that cold rush down his gullet. Sam sniffles and tries to concentrate on the screen, presses his lips into a thin line. The thoughts of being on complete display isn't easy to digest, not even with almost two bottles of beer in his system. He can do this. They drank more than him and smoked on top of that. Shouldn't they be way more wasted than he is? Maybe he'll make it this time.

He's taken this course a billion times, but Jensen manages to push him out of that damn turn. Even though it's only the first half of the second lap, Sam knows he is done for already. He even _feels_ pale.

His controller drops to the mattress the second Jensen passes the finish line. Beer. Beer will help. He finishes the bottle, but it's still humiliating when he starts fumbling with the button and zipper.

Dean fishes the bottle out of the twine of Sam's fingers. "Another?"

"Dee. Jesus, he's had _enough_."

Dean snorts. "Sure, whatever." Somewhere Sam can't see, he hears the bottle being placed securely on the wooden floor.

Everything spins when he lets himself fall flat on his back; maybe Jensen is right about that "enough". The jeans won't come off and he grunts in frustration and effort.

Hands return, run down his belly and over his chest, help him tug his jeans further down. The kiss from his right is soft and wet and tastes of fresh beer from that other mouth. Sam sighs against that tongue. A harsher tug follows and suddenly there's too much air in places that had been covered only a few seconds ago. When Sam reaches for the elastic of his boxer slip, it's not there anymore.

He groans from deep inside his chest and shudders at the sound of it. He's never heard himself like that.

Each twin grabs a leg and pulls him open, which is terrible enough as it is - but they keep kissing and touching and everything _everywhere but below his navel_. After a few minutes (has it even _been_ minutes?), the need to be touched becomes too strong to endure any longer.

Sam reaches down, but his wrist is caught before he gets a hold of himself. His forehead hurts with how hard his brows pull into a frown.

"Nuh-uh. Not that fast, cowboy."

He whimpers.

"I know, baby, I know." Twin-echoed zips. Sam's hands are tugged where it's warm between open flies. "Winners first."

Both of them are hard already, and Sam didn't even _do_ anything yet. He wheezes and starts jerking his fists. Their dicks are so thick that he has to add quite the pressure to form a somewhat closed circle with his fingers. They whisper things like "good" and "yeah" though, so it can't be too bad. He feels himself blush all the way down to his chest and sticks to keeping his eyes closed. It's bad enough that he can't keep his dick from jumping at every tickle of fingers over his nipples, his thighs, at every nip of mouth and teeth at his neck, ear, collar bones.

In the background, the victory music still plays in endless loops, but none of them pays attention. The rush of his own blood is so loud in his ears that Sam is surprised that he can even make out the twins' little noises over it. Their hands get rougher with passing time, just like their previously motionless hips come alive with shallow thrusts into the warm meat of Sam's hands.

"G... guys...!" He squirms, but they hold him tight. "Uhn. Guys... C'mon... Please..." Jensen sucks Sam's left nipple into his mouth and Sam's head tilts backwards.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Losin' every single game an' still makin' demands." Dean sing-songs the words against Sam's temple, kisses his ear, bites and pulls at the shell of it. Sam's dick feels like it's going to either fall off or explode, really. "With manners like that, I dun think it'd do you any good to let you have what you want. I dun think we could be responsible for somethin' like that, Jen an' me."

It seems so easy when he doesn't think about it too hard. All he has to do is let go of theirs and grab his own dick - the distance is short and no obstacles are in the way. But he knows they'd be faster, and only God knows how they do that in the state they must be in. Sam licks the spit from the corner of his mouth (how did it get there?) and thrashes his head when Dean puts his mouth on the yet neglected one of his nipples.

"P-please...!"

He's not the type that begs easily. He doesn't usually ask for anything at all, really, because why should he even bother? The answer is clear prior to his inquiry anyway. But something like this? This type of stuff? He hasn't even _dreamed_ about stuff this good. If he had known there are things like this out there, maybe he would have been braver to go explore it sooner; maybe would have actually had the guts to do that, yeah.

While Jensen has settled on drags of his flat tongue that practically press Sam's nipple back into his chest, Dean nurses on the other side with staccato-like assaults of suction, tongue and even teeth, and if the single things by themselves aren't enough to make Sam lose his mind, the combination of both is.

"Please, _please_! PLEASE!"

He doesn't care about the deep shade of red the heat on his cheeks is hinting at, doesn't even care about the pitch in his voice, the little break that turns the third "please" into comedy for whoever can hear it. No, he's fucking past all that.

So when Jensen lets go of his chest and blows a little air where he left it spit-wet before demanding, "Say 'suck my cock, Jen'," Sam's mouth doesn't ask for further permission.

"Please suck my cock, Jen!"

Whatever he expected it to feel like loses all its shine and glamour against the actual, _real_ sensation of a warm, slick mouth around his dick. Flashes of white and red and black and his entire body bucks off of the mattress, but an unforgiving squeeze around the base of his dick together with three other hands pushing his body back down have him snap out of it just as quick as he's ascended into it. His eyes are ripped open with a wave of pain.

"Not yet," Jensen whispers to the tip of Sam's cock - and starts a slow, uneven chain of kitten licks to it.

He's gonna die. He's gonna die and it's gonna be _their fault_. The pain is subsiding with decreasing pressure from Jensen's fist, but never entirely gone; just present enough not to let Sam lose himself in the maddening tickle against the sensitive head of his dick. What his lungs are doing is no longer panting but hyperventilation, and somehow he's still jerking off the two of them unconsciously - well, more consciously when Dean leans over him to get at the nipple Jensen abandoned and thus lets his dick slide along Sam's hip with each thrust.

"He even has his monster-dick, huh, Jen."

"Huh. In training, I'd say."

"Needs a few more years n' lotsa attention, _I'd_ say."

"You think you're _so_ funny."

"Oh, I _am_ , baby."

Sam wants to ask what the hell they are talking about, but Dean takes the opportunity to shut his mouth with a kiss while Jensen pops the head of his dick back past the tight ring of his lips. With his eyes back closed and thus without much of an orientation left, the hand untangling his own from Jensen's dick doesn't make much sense.

"Hm, how about this."

If they weren't as capable of just moving him around like they want to, Sam has no idea how he would ever be able to move on his own right now. Everything shifts and sways until Jensen lies on his stomach between Sam's legs, hands still like a vice around the base of his dick, mouth still pink and perfect right next to it. The TV's lights, just like before when Sam still could look into the guy's face without seeing his own dick at the same time, paint the most beautiful shadows on his lower back, the low-riding jeans. There is no underwear to be seen, just pale pale skin and the not-so hidden cleft of his ass out for the room to see.

"Shit, _Jen_ ," Dean groans.

Yeah. Sam can relate.

"You race Dean, Sammy, and if you lose... well. Let's see..." The nod of his head could as well have been a shrug. The lopsided grin is directed at Sam, the hooded eyes at Dean. "We'll do or tell three things. _And_ -" A slow lick from base to tip and Sam only barely keeps his eyes open. "-I'll let you come."

Speaking of motherfucking _motivation_. Suddenly, Sam's controller is back in his hands. His thumb skids over a precome-slippery button. Oh God. _Oh God_. This is not gonna end well, is it.

Some shuffling later, Dean's legs shimmy back up against Sam's side - naked, this time around. He's in his shirt only now, lying on his side to see the screen more or less properly and rubbing his cock against Sam. He may be not as calm as before Jensen's announcement, but he sure as hell has a clear advantage over Sam's closeness to a nervous breakdown.

Jensen's tug at his cock lets Sam see stars. "I'll keep this in line for ya, so no worries. All you gotta take care of is the game."

Fuck. No. No, nope; absolutely no fucking way he's gonna make this.

Dean chooses Moonview Highway.

Sam is so fucking _dead_.

Actually, until Jensen wraps his lips around him, there's still somewhat of a shimmer of hope on Sam's horizon. Afterwards, he can't even see said _horizon_. The mix between pain and bliss is making his eyes and pores water, but turns his mouth into a damn desert. He gets run over by a truck, two; Dean can barely suppress his laughter. It's not fair. Never was _supposed_ to be fair, obviously. Sam's fingers won't operate the buttons like he wants them to. When he thinks he makes out an obstacle, Waluigi has already collided with it.

At the beginning of the final lap, Sam realizes in horror that Jensen did not say what would happen if he _lost_.

Jensen starts sucking then, and the controller almost slips out of Sam's fingers. The pressure is too much when coming from both ends; it really really _really_ isn't fun anymore all of a sudden. If Sam didn't know any better, he would assume his glans was about to rip off his dick. "J-Jen!" he hears himself sob.

Jensen's mouth disappears.

Yoshi surges across the finish line.

Warmth runs down Sam's cheeks in even, slim streams.

"Shhh, it's okay; it's alright, Sam - here, I stopped. I stopped, okay, buddy?"

"Shit. Jen, what in the... It's fuckin' _purple_. Purple!"

He tries to laugh along through their fingers and hair in his face, because yeah, it's really kind of hilarious now that most of that ugly pain is gone. Jensen is kneeling over him and peppers kisses all over his face while Dean wipes away the tears with too-rough pads of fingers. So full of blood that Sam can feel it tick where it lies against his stomach, his dick is slowly settling down into an already perversely familiar throbbing.

There is no other reason to do this to him but to see him writhe in pain. Period. That's it. No fucking excuse for any of that.

Through their tender kisses and touches, Sam still can't believe nor understand why they chose _him_. When the bullies used to be at their cruelest with him, he would ask himself the same question. He didn't do anything wrong. He was neither good nor bad to anyone, really; he just wanted to be _left alone._ Still, they found him somehow.

When logic and sense became bigger and clearer posts in his life, they did not give him any answer to that "why" or "how". Maybe it has nothing to do with logic, doesn't need a reason. Maybe they can simply _sense_ his weakness. Smell it, maybe. Feel it when they touch him, see it when he looks them in the eye.

"You lost, though," Dean pants in between his laughter. The black in his eyes has stretched wide over the green.

Maybe, even if Sam wasn't this out of it, if he was completely sober and fully awake, he would _still_ not struggle against their hands, would _still_ let them shove him any way they want - in this case: hauling him forward until his elbows come down to keep himself from falling to his face, then lifting his leg so Dean can crawl underneath. Arms wrap around his waist to keep him from escaping or moving in general, and Dean's dick slaps hard against Sam's cheek as he shuffles his hips in place. Dean tugs his ass further down and Sam gasps into the empty space of Jensen's mouth before he's neither seen Jensen nor actually felt Dean's mouth on his ass.

If Dean wasn't holding him, Sam would have crashed on top of him. Jensen's lips curl despite their kiss, mock Sam even now when he can do nothing but whimper and cry and crash over the sensations rocketing through his body. He feels a little sick, a little very fucking much dizzy; maybe this position isn't too suitable for a lightweight like him on two bottles of their first beer. Jensen pulls Sam's tongue out with his teeth and cackles over the fact that Sam is in no way able to wipe the drool from his chin.

Dean's slap to his ass sends Sam yelping in surprise. "Listen, baby; I mean, I'm honored by your efforts 'n all - but you really shouldn't use this much soap down here. Feels like imma be blowing bubbles any second."

Jensen's eyes go wide before he bursts into laughter once more. "Ohmygod, oh - my - God! Sam, did you actually...?!"

Prepare for having his ass licked? Expect having it done to him and hope not to make too much of a fool of himself by _not_ expecting it? Dean picks up where he left off and lets all fighting spirit and reserve slip right back out of Sam's throat.

"Shit. You really are somethin', huh."

Dean's tongue slips in and out of his hole as if it was owning it. Sam is no expert or anything, but shouldn't his muscles at least _try_ to stop him from getting in there? At least a little bit? This can't be normal. Maybe they broke him. Oh God. What if they _broke_ him?

"Here." What must be Dean's dick is being pushed against his lips. "Suck."

Sam is not in the position or state to decline anything, really. That should probably bother him a lot more than it does, shouldn't it? Dean's dick feels different in his mouth and definitely more intense than last time. When Sam purses his lips, they catch around the flared head; has it been this hot and fat last time, too? Sam can't remember, can't bring up the brain power to really examine the thought. Dean's tongue feels so good, like it's dissolving Sam from the inside. Even though his dick sways completely ignored between his stomach and Dean's chest, it's okay, better than not having anything of him touched. Every few licks or so, Sam has the impression that there's a straight line from his ass to his dick. He could come like that. Didn't he come like that before, just from getting his ass licked? Sam hums around Dean's dick and, encouraged by Jensen's fist in his hair, starts bobbing his head up and down.

If the pot had him floating already, he has no idea how to label _this_ feeling. He isn't as numb, as tired. There's definitely less control; he's moving more, feels dizzier when he turns his head. His belly is full and he is warm all over. Every touch sets a fire under his skin. Dean slaps his ass again and Sam jerks hard within his boundaries.

"One last game," Jensen muses.

Sam is pushed (pulled?) off of Dean's dick and finds himself kneeling upright, still on Dean's face, still with a tongue swirling inside of him. Jensen shoves Sam's controller into his hands and sets the course with his own which he discards once he's done. He disappears out of Sam's view then, crawls behind them. Sam almost loses his balance over the slide of hands from his back around under his arms and towards his chest. The fingertips settle on his nipples.

"Make it into the top three."

On Rainbow Road, Lakitu starts the countdown from ten backwards.

Things are starting to blur from here on. It's hard enough keeping his eyes on the screen, harder not to topple over, even though Jensen is holding him. Without even having completed the first lap, Sam's thigs are already burning and twitching dangerously. He stays strong though, blinks and pants through the lightning bolts in his stomach and chest and everywhere their skin touches his own. Second lap, tenth place. Shit. He can still make it. He _has_ to make it.

The worst thing is when Dean sighs or groans or makes any sound at all, really. The vibration is so intense and deep that it sends Sam's dick jumping towards his belly, makes it leak with droplets of precome that oh-so torturously run down from slit towards base, never make it there, never stop itching. Jensen plucks on his nipples now, slow and absolutely gentle touches that would easily push Sam over the edge in combination with what Dean is doing - if he wouldn't dig his nails in every now and then.

Final lap, ninth place. Sam's fingers are slippery on the buttons. Jensen snickers into his neck, then sucks, then _bites_.

Sam's muscles give in and he slumps forward. Jensen is just quick enough to keep him from really falling, but Waluigi slides off the track for what must be the tenth time of this round, and Sam knows he won't make it. One of Dean's fingers pushes past Sam's rim right next to his tongue and the controller falls to Dean's pelvis over the sound of Sam's exhausted cry.

The constrictions of his balls are so forceful that Dean must feel it on his chin. Sam doesn't even think of touching his dick, not with how violently it spills all over Dean's stomach, his shirt, the controller. He sobs through it, and none of the twins are doing anything about it. They just keep going and going and _don't even_ _laugh_ , and that's what pulls Sam out of his haze as soon as his brain is clear enough to register it.

The finger pushes in deeper, and Sam gasps. It feels strange. He doesn't like that. A second pries him open - and that now actually _hurts_. So much spit, and it still _hurts_.

"What? 'Hurts'?"

Huh? Did he say that out loud? Ah, Oh God…

The fingers retreat though. Dean lifts Sam's hips off of himself. "Always complainin', huh."

To keep himself from getting completely disorientated, Sam presses his eyes shut when the world decides to spin again. With his face suddenly smashed into them, the cover and pillows smell so much of the twins that it's overwhelming. But the fingers come back, along with skin and muscles and fingers all over Sam's body, and he feels himself struggle. His mouth moves, but he isn't too sure he is making any sense with what he's saying.

On his stomach, the fingers seem to have an easier slide. They're surprisingly cool and slick and go deep _fast_. Sam moans into someone's mouth.

"Yeah, that's better, innit." Dean. "C'mon, be a good boy an' spread 'em for me."

Sam's hands are placed on either side of his ass and pulled out to the sides to give him an idea of what he is supposed to do. His own flesh feels foreign underneath his fingers and he digs them in harder to recognize it. The tension on his skin feels way too good so soon after coming so hard.

With a twist deeper inside, Sam can feel the webbing of Dean's fingers, his knuckles. _He's got them all the way inside you_. He groans, clutches his ass cheeks harder. Jensen nips a path across his shoulders, pinches the little flesh he can get between his teeth. Sam's dick comes to life again.

"Huh? 'Good'?"

Did he say that it was good?

"God, Sammy." Just like he did with his tongue, Dean fucks his fingers in and out without holding back. Somehow, Sam has to chase them on every pull out. "Y'know how long I've been thinkin' of doin' this?"

" _We_ ," Jensen corrects.

Dean laughs. "Fuck. _Fuck_."

Once more, he's spun around; onto his back this time. The fingers stay wedged inside him and don't give him a single break. The slow press of them has taken over the initial burn. It's still a little as if he needed to go to the toilet, but there's something different, too; something better.

Dean kisses him, and somehow Sam _knows_ that it's Dean even though he doesn't know very much right now (for example where he is and how late it is and that a world outside this attic exists). He throws his arms around his neck and pulls him closer, kisses open-mouthed and doesn't care that both twins are laughing at that, because he just feels too good to be ashamed; they made him do this, after all, _they_ made him become like this.

"So _eager_."

"Did you lose on purpose, baby?"

He shakes his head "no", notices how wet his bangs are sticking to his face from all the sweat.

A third finger wants inside, but the angle is off. When it pushes in nevertheless and then bends, Sam realizes it must be a thumb.

"Fuck. That's a damn nice ass."

"Told you, bitch."

"Yeah, well." A laugh, kissing noises. Sam can barely feel his fingers skid over Dean's sweaty skin. "So, what now? We're throwing a coin, or…?"

"You ever _listen_ to yourself? Oh God! Ain't _I_ supposed to be the asshole twin?"

More laughter. Sam is kissed. The thumb withdraws and is immediately replaced by what must be Dean's ring finger.

"Baby." Sweet kisses, on his mouth, the corners of his mouth, his chin. Sam thinks he might come again if this goes on. "Sammy. Baby boy. Hey."

He blinks, gets his eyes and forehead wiped. Jensen kisses his temple, his ear. In the darkness of the room and in the thick frame of his lashes, Dean's eyes are almost completely black.

"Which one'f us should go first?"

Sam might not really understand what Dean means, but he sure as hell knows the answer no matter what. "You," he croaks.

Dean's chest expands against Sam's as his eyes droop further, lets the amulet dance over Sam's skin. "Shit. _Baby_."

"Told you he's got it bad for you, dude."

"Shit."

As the fingers slowly pull out, all that keeps Sam from protesting is Dean's tongue deep down his throat; the little grunts he gets from pulling on the short strands of Dean's hair that he gets a hold of.

"Shit, Jen. Do you think that, uh. I mean, he's got nothing, obviously, 'n we're clean, too, so…"

" _Dean_."

"Oh, c'mon; _please_? C'mon, we did it with your stupid boyfriend, too! You owe me!"

"… That's not the same."

"Really fuckin' _is_ , Jen." The crown of Dean's dick bumps against Sam's hole. With a sudden spark of realization, Sam knows what they are talking about - what is going to _happen_. "C'mon, say yes. Don't tell me you _don't_ wanna feel _all_ of mini Jay here."

Sam splutters his breath. Dean is rubbing his dick up and down his crack, from hole over taint and back; the pressure of it almost drives him inside already. It's thick, too thick; how is that supposed to _work_? It doesn't feel right. The tongue, the fingers - those were different. Sam tightens his hug around Dean's back.

It's gonna be okay. Dean knows what he's doing. It's gonna be okay. It's always been okay. You always liked what happened in the end. Dean will know what to do.

"… God, I hate you," Jensen sighs somewhere to Sam's right.

Sam watches them kiss. "An' God, do I _love_ you."

The glans pops smoothly through the ring of muscle, round and fat and Sam holds his breath until it stings and burns and Dean hums sweet little nothings into his ear to make it better, tangles his fingers into Sam's hair and bends Sam's neck like that as if it was the leash he put him on. Jensen's fingers fly softly over Sam's stomach in between the gap Dean left open with his body, urge him to relax, to _breathe_ , Sammy, _breathe_.

He does, no idea how, but he does; and Dean forces another few inches inside of him.

He's gonna die. He's gonna shit himself, then cry, then throw up, and then he's gonna die.

Dean's mouth returns, bites his bottom lip and pulls on it, chews without too much force, just lets Sam know he's here, he's right here. A soft pull backwards, out, oh God yes please _out_ ; but it's back just as quick, just as full, and the friction and sensation makes Sam's breath hitch again.

"Wanted to do this from the first second I saw you." It's a whisper, not more than a breath. Maybe Jensen doesn't even hear it, maybe Sam's the only one; maybe this is just for him. "Saw your cute lil' face 'n thought 'damn, this one's gonna cry on my dick'."

Even if Sam wanted, if he really would have _cared_ , he probably couldn't have held in this sob. Dean's mouth has him back, eats and licks at him and Sam can taste himself, can taste soap and ass and beer and pot and Dean and everything. Another idle pull and push punches all air out of his lungs, leaves Dean breathless, too. It gets really tight down there when he does that, Sam realizes, and tries to haul as much air into his lungs as he can, just to have it fucked out again right away.

The tendons in his leg on Dean's shoulder starts complaining when Dean hauls it up even higher, bends it even deeper towards Sam's chest. In contrast to when he was talking just seconds ago ( _seconds_?), Dean's eyes now are completely awake, aware; wild. Sam can't help but stare right into them, feels just like all those days ago on the sidewalk; naked and on display and completely and utterly lost in this guy.

When Dean's hips really start snapping, all that was left of Sam's mind dissolves into fog. He knows there are hands, he can feel them in his hair, on his legs, his arms; knows that it's Dean's amulet scraping and bouncing over his chest, against his chin. His mouth is moving, his throat vibrating - he must be saying something, making some kind of noise, sound, but he can't hear himself. All there is is _Dean_ \- Dean's eyes, Dean's sweat, Dean's skin, Dean's hair in between Sam's fingers, Dean's muscles working, Dean's dick ramming into Sam's insides, Dean's throat spilling grunts and breaths - and it's all Sam's.

"Feels good?"

"Yeah." (He thinks he says it.)

"How's it feel? Tell me, Sammy, how's my dick feel inside you, huh?"

"F-full."

"Full? Yeah? Nice 'n big for ya, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah. That's what you do to it, baby, that's all _yours_."

"Mine."

"Uh-huh. All yours, baby, all yours. You gonna let me come inside you, baby boy? Gonna fill that lil' hole all nice 'n full, huh; gonna let me?"

"Yeah, yeah." (He thinks that's what he says.)

"Mmmh; nice 'n creamy for Jenny, yeah." (He thinks he hears them laugh.) "Fuck, baby, yeah, gonna come; gonna-"

Having his knee almost pushed into his armpit hurts just a little more than how hard Dean fucks into him the last three, two, one times; Sam yelps but Dean is shaking on top of him and he just holds on, holds Dean close, presses him right against his heart, buries his face in his nape of the neck, ignores the dig of the amulet's horns into his throat.

From porn in general, Sam had always thought you'd feel the come hitting your inner walls or something, but there's nothing; a faint warmth, maybe, but that's it. What he _does_ feel though are the pumping spasms that go all the way from root to tip of Dean's dick. He holds his breath through it (more or less consciously) in order not to miss a single one of them. They die down after a while, and Dean's body becomes heavier with every passing second. It's okay though; Sam can take it, he doesn't mind.

Sweat slick-slides in between their bodies when Dean eventually peels himself off of Sam. A few more tender ruts spread that unfamiliar warmth inside of Sam, makes him gasp and Dean hum in obvious satisfaction.

"Fuck, kiddo. Knew you'd be good. Such a good boy for us."

He wants to say "yes" but can't get the letters out.

Dean detangles their limbs and pulls out, leaving Sam aching and uncomfortably empty. The sensation of liquid pouring from his asshole is just as terrifying as it is arousing. Sam stares into nothing, sees nothing, just feels air against his skin, mild throbs of pain on his scalp, his neck, his thigh; more or less all over his body.

Jensen climbs in between his legs and shoulders the one Dean had left unattained.

Sam is still catching his breath, feels Jensen's thighs against the back of his own, the slick tip of his cock nudging at his entrance. He watches how Dean drops on his back next to him and calmly lights himself a cigarette.

In harmony with the push inside, Jensen leans forwards and down towards Sam's face. Sam's hands are splayed useless next to his shoulders and he distantly is aware of them twitching at every scrape of a ridge or vein of dick against his insides.

By now, it's so dark around them that Sam can barely see the white in those eyes, sees only half of Jensen's face - but it's enough.

Jensen looked at him like this before - in the car before school, after he saw them kiss for the first time in front of Clinton Lake. There is something about his eyes when he does, something Sam has never seen in Dean's, nothing even _close_ to it.

Jensen's hands place themselves on Sam's chest then, slide softly in time with his hips, brush over his nipples, come back to pinch them in between thumb and forefinger when he pulls back, too. Both their mouths are hanging open, but Sam doesn't have to guess who wears it better.

"Fuck," Jensen breathes.

In contrast to his brother, he doesn't smash the entire length of his dick in and out, but Sam is not too sure if he can call himself lucky about these slow, incredibly deep churns he chooses instead. He keeps his body as stiff as a plank, barely dares to _breathe_ under Jensen's gaze, as if he would be swallowed whole if he blinked or made a general move at the wrong second.

The pressure is hard to locate. The same second Sam thinks he's identified it as painful, it melts into bliss. At the one-too many rolls of hips, Sam feels his dick blurt a thick bead of precome.

They both look down at it, then back into each other's eyes.

Jensen's lips curl into a smirk. "Hey, Wesson? We're gonna have a _good_ time."

Where Sam expects a roll, there comes a deep thump. He grunts in surprise, blinks; it comes again, and he repeats along. Slowly, Jensen is building up a rhythm, and slowly, Sam feels like his skull is being carved out from the inside. The first bump of the back of his head against the wall brings him back into reality, makes him realize he has been staring right into Jensen's face the whole time without really _seeing_ it. When he tries to flex his fingers, he finds them fisting the sheet. His exhale comes thin, thinner when Jensen's dick punches in _deep_. Oh no. Oh God no.

His face flushes red, then redder when he hears himself moan. It doesn't change much about Jensen's movements, neither stops nor quickens them, and that's kind of scaring the shit out of Sam all of a sudden. Something about Jensen's stare, about the absolute precision of his thrusts sends Sam the message that he is at complete mercy of him, that Jensen can and _will_ do things to Sam that Sam has not even a bare understanding of.

"P-please." It's his own voice.

Jensen's eyelids droop another tiniest bit further, keep him pinned. He keeps fucking him.

Sam doesn't know this feeling, not like this. The only thing that maybe is a little bit like this is-

Jensen leans closer down, tugs Sam's leg with him. He reaches even deeper with Sam's ass tipped up like that, and the silver key lands flat and oddly cold on Sam's sternum.

"Go ahead," Sam hears. Jensen's lips move in time with the words.

The pace picks up, and it picks up _hard_. Sam yelps, scrambles for support, finds the wide column of Jensen's shoulders to hold on to, just like he did with Dean. It feels like being turned inside out, like having his guts shoved back into his stomach. Maybe that's what happening right now; Sam wouldn't be too surprised.

It feels good. It feels way way _way_ too good. It's strange. He is scared. He doesn't like this.

Suddenly, everything is alit. Sam squeezes his eyes closed against the harsh light.

"Don't mind me."

"… _Dude_."

"C'mon, it's for science."

The first thing Sam sees when his eyes finally adjust are Dean's fingers. Dean's fingers curled around a cell phone. A cell phone whose camera is pointing directly at Sam's face.

He'll tell himself that his eyes got wet because the light made them burn.

"No!"

"Huh? What?"

"N-no, _stop_ ; I- I don-"

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy; that's just for _me_ , man. I won't show it around o' anythin'."

Jensen picks up where he left off with his thrusts. Sam feels like he is going to throw up.

Dean smiles, half to himself, half to the display of his phone. The longer strands of his bangs are sticking out or against his skin that is shiny with sweat. He sucks on his cigarette and idly blows out the smoke. "Jus' your pretty lil' face, all for my private collection."

If Jensen hadn't cupped his face, wouldn't have turned it towards his own to get at Sam's mouth with his teeth and tongue and lips, Sam would have pleaded more, would have repeated _no, I don't want that, stop, don't_. But when he presses his eyes closed and just feels - doesn't think, just _feels_ , then he can let the knots in his stomach go again. He doesn't want to feel like that. He doesn't want to be the spoilsports, the demanding stupid thing that won't let them enjoy themselves. Dean is right. Dean wouldn't show that video to someone else. He's just making memories, just like a diary, a photo album. There's nothing to be sissy about. _Calm down, Wesson; don't be a dick_.

After concentrating for a few moments on the slurping wet noises Jensen manages to fuck out of his ass, the heat has his insides back. Jensen bites his jaw hard enough to make Sam squeal and works him even harder from there on.

With his forearms around Sam's shoulders, Jensen holds him tight; has the two of them almost curled into a ball of limbs and flesh and skin. Their foreheads press against each other and Sam can feel the drops of sweat running into the creases of Jensen's deep frown. His throat hurts, his ass even more - but apparently, his dick _loves_ this.

It's a bit like being close while jerking off, a little like when the relentless twirls of Jensen's tongue pushed him over the edge in the tree house, a bit like when Dean fucked him so hard he thought he would suffocate on it.

It's addicting and terrible and painful and suddenly, Sam's entire body seems to take a leap - before crashing into something that makes him scream.

There is no more hearing, no sense really, except for that sensation that turns him completely weightless. All there is is heat all over and inside and just _everywhere_. There is no more straight bone in his body, no pain, no distraction.

He doesn't recall it ever subsiding; only barely is aware of Jensen going rigid and then calm after a while. Everything is just warm. He could be made out of warm water, and it wouldn't surprise him.

When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean is right in front of him.

"Mmmh." His throat is completely raw. He wants to pick up his hands and place them against Dean's hips, make them slow down in their hurry to get his dick back inside Sam.

"God, how are you so hot? Huh, Sammy?"

His legs are grabbed, rearranged once more. He frowns, pulls a face. Dean is buried to the hilt, so hard and fat and just overwhelmingly _there_ that it's too much so soon after whatever just happened. Sam wants to say that, but his tongue won't move.

"Jus' one more. You can do it. Jus' let me."

Dean kisses his knee, runs his hands up and down his thighs. He has both of Sam's legs over his shoulder now, squeezes them tight. His hips move in slow, wide eight-figures. If Sam hadn't already lost all of his mind, this would probably do the trick.

Dean groans as he tilts his head back. The exposed line of his throat bobs with a swallow. "God, Sammy. Feels so damn _good_ on my dick."

One first of the many more to come straight thrusts could as well be fireworks in Sam's ass. He tries a whine, but only half of it really comes out.

Before he loses time, Sam hears Dean rasp, "Could do this forever." 

"Hey. It's me."

Sam's eyes won't quite open when he wants them to, as if they were glued together. When he tries to move a first muscle, it's so heavy and painful that he abandons the idea right away. Judging by what he sees through his eyelids, it still seems to be dark.

"I know… I… I just… _I miss you_."

He tries to locate the voice, the person who is speaking. One twin is lying next to Sam, unmoving, asleep. A slit of opening lids reveals a chest, a dark leather string.

"Yes. Yes, I'm trying, but… but I…"

Jensen. It's Jensen. Somewhere close behind Sam, a bit upwards; maybe sitting with his back turned to him.

When he doesn't speak, Sam can make out the sound of another voice - dull, croaking, as if…

Jensen is on the phone with someone.

"I can't do it, Jay. I try, I _tried_ ; but I _can't_."

He is sobbing the last words.

"Please." He sniffles. "Please, I wanna see you. Can I come see you? … … … Or _you_ come here. Just get me out of here. I dun care. … … … … No, I- … … … Jay. … … … … … Jared… … … … Jared. _Please_. … … Please. I can't do it. Every day, I try, _I really try_ , but I just can't take it; _I can't_. Please, Jay. Can't you, just, take a day off or…"

Sleep tugs Sam back into the darkness without his notice.


	4. Chapter 4

Someone is shaking him by the shoulder. When Sam's eyes open, there is only little light they have to endure - night is only just about to turn into morning.

It's Dean. "Hey, sorry, buddy. I, uh. You know, I know this sounds really stupid right now, but… would you mind headin' home? Dad's about to come back, and…"

Sam blinks, tries to orientate himself in the room. Everything is clicking into place - Dean, bad breath, naked skin, mouth like sandpaper, warm bed, numb-hot throb between his legs.

"… Sam?"

"Uh… S-sorry, I mean, uh. Y-yeah, sure."

Every movement hurts, sends his head spinning anew. He sways and Dean stabilizes him in his half-lying, half-sitting position; grabs his elbow and yanks it towards the opposite direction Sam is falling to. His stuff. What _is_ his stuff? That's his shirt, his jeans, his shorts. Warmth is running down the insides of his thighs.

"Your controller," Dean reminds somewhere from the mattress. His whisper is thin and raw from drinking and smoking and sleep. When Sam stands up straight again after retrieving the white piece of plastic from the ground, Dean has taken his former place against Jensen's chest. "See you around."

For a moment, Sam just stands there, right in the middle of the room, just looks and breathes and nothing else. Can't _do_ anything else.

"See ya," he says.

Sam heads downstairs, tries the door - which is secured with several locks Sam has no idea how to open. Same with the backdoor. He almost has to puke halfway through the tiny kitchen window, both from pain and too-full stomach. The air outside is still moderately cool, still moist. Across the grass, he tries to concentrate on the dew on his naked feet; then enters their home through the (naturally unlocked) backdoor, climbs the stairs. For the first time in a long time, he closes the door to his room behind him.

All he sees on Saturday is either the inside of his eyelids or his pillow. Even though he tries to avoid it with all might and willpower, he eventually _has_ to go to the bathroom. It doesn't hurt as much as he feared it would, but he still shakes all the way through it. Under the shower, he takes stock. Swollen, raw and sore, yeah, but by far not as wrecked as it feels like. His sigh echoes wetly against the tiles.

Back to bed. Mom is downstairs with a girlfriend of hers. It's said girlfriend who knocks on his door and brings him a giant piece of homemade pizza. She smells of wine and intense perfume.

"Thanks," Sam says.

"You don't look to good, baby. Are you alright? Should I get your mom?"

He pulls his lips into a smile. "Nah, I'm alright. Jus' a little tired."

"Ah, teenage Friday nights. I see, I see!" Her earrings jingle when she throws her head back in a tipsy laugh. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Wish I could be that young one more time."

Thank God he doesn't need to pretend to be anything while stuffing his face with pizza.

Between dozing on and off, Sam hears the door and the car, then nothing. It's starting to get dark outside. He rolls over to face away from the window.

The Impala remains in its designated spot and doesn't move an inch. They don't come over.

If he would have had one wish this Monday morning, it would have been _not_ to be disappointed that nobody was waiting for him outside. Sam sighs and goes to grab his bike.

Maybe Jensen is at school, maybe he isn't. Sam loiters in the hallways during lunch and nibbles his sandwich outside, next to the sports ground. It's not like he is _avoiding_ Jensen. No, really. He is more like, uh, how would you put it… avoidingbeing _openly invisible_. As long as _he_ is the one choosing to be it, he can endure it. He's mastered that technique by now. Unfortunately, that doesn't soothe his mind at all, of course.

Of course he _wants_ to see Jensen. _Wants_ to meet him, talk to him; to check if whatever there was is still there. Wants to say "Hey, remember Friday night? 'Cause _I_ do.", "Was I any good?", "Please tell me you won't throw me away.", wants to see Jensen smile and ruffle Sam's hair, maybe pet Sam's shoulder and hear him say: "Oh _Sammy_. Do you know how adorable you are? _Of_ _course_ we still like you. Wanna come over later? Dean wants to apologize for throwing you out. Do you like homemade pasta? Dean is a great cook. Oh, and we just adopted a puppy. Would you like to take it for a walk sometime?" … Okay. Maybe the last bit got a little out of hand. But the song remains the same. And, worse yet: Whatever he dreams up - he won't be getting it anyway.

It's not on him to decide this. He's thought about this a lot during the weekend, both in the middle of the night and during high noon. This is how they are. They do what they want, when they want, with whomever they want. Sam isn't special - he's disposable. Kim, Kelly, Sam, God knows who or how many else. Just like they taunted them in front of _him_ , they probably taunted Sam in front of _them_. _"Saw that little Oliver Twist at our table? He's so madly in love with us that he'd do_ anything _we ask him to do. Cute lil' toy. But not as cute as you, though. Hmmm; why don't you get on your knees for me for a lil' bit, baby girl?"_ Yeah. The longer (and more often) Sam thinks about it, it's not too unlikely at all.

They don't have cruel intentions with what they do. In a strange way, Sam understands them very well. Like him, they don't have it easy in life. Sam doesn't know much about them, really really doesn't, but the furniture, the locked doors, the panic and silent begging in Dean's eyes when he urged Sam to leave before their dad arrived… and then Jensen's phone call.

Jay. Jared.

Sam's heard that name before. They called him "mini Jay". Several times already they said he looked like "him", acted like "him". Had they meant _Jared_ all this time? Why hadn't they simply told him?

Whenever Dean had compared Sam with the guy, he spat the words as if they were poison. Jensen had cried on the phone with him. Something's _very_ _wrong_ about this.

They are not okay. They are just as far away from "okay" as Sam is, probably - and that's coming from someone who's known them for the incredible timespan of _two weeks_.

If this is over, they will be the ones to tell him that. There is nothing Sam can do about it. Nothing but holding on tight and hope for the best.

* * *

Deep enough in his math problems to even overhear his own thoughts, Sam couldn't give less of a shit about the doorbell. If Mom's ordered another ridiculous amount of summer dresses instead of getting him the new pair of sneakers he's been promised for the past year, it serves her right to drive to the ass of the world to get her fucking delivery handed to her.

From inside of his room's door frame, Dean's voice comes out of nowhere with a "Knock knock?" and Sam almost gives himself an involuntary lobotomy with his pencil.

"Woah!" Dean laughs out loud. "Chill. 'Ts only me." Sam didn't hear him come up the stairs, let alone open the front door. It's almost unbelievable compared with how carelessly he is stomping through Sam's room now, right up to the desk where Sam is sitting.

One hand comes down on the table, the other on his shoulder.

Sam's face is so red and so sweaty so fast that it's a miracle it isn't _fuming_ , too.

Dean leans over his shoulder and has a look at the papers and textbooks in front of Sam. "Professor Sammy at work, huh? Shit, lookit that. Even for money, I couldn't do that."

He's so close, so close. He smells like cigarettes and cologne - the same he wore when they were at the tree house. Sam's mouth waters. "Homework, you mean?"

Dean snorts. "School in general, I guess."

"Was there nothing you liked?"

"Not really."

Sam leans back. Just a tiny little bit. Just to touch the back of his head against Dean's chest. "Nothing? No favorite class?"

The hand rubs him idly. Dean's chuckle is soft under his breath. "Liked the breaks. And summers. And snow days. Anyway." He squeezes Sam's neck. Sam melts. "'S your mommy home? Her car's outside."

Sam doesn't dare to speak too loud. "Her colleague gives her rides sometimes."

Dean gives an approving hum. "I see." He bows down deeper to reach Sam's neck - with his mouth. They're not sucks, not bites. Slow, wet kisses, with his jaw opened so wide that his mouth covers almost half of Sam's neck at once.

Sam shudders, then cranes his neck.

The kisses wander deeper, down to the nape of his neck where the seam of Sam's t-shirt begins. Dean noses underneath and peels it from Sam's skin with his fingers on the other side of Sam's neck.

"W… w- _wait_."

Dean goes completely still.

Sam's heart feels like it's about to pop out of his ribs any second now. "I, uh. C-can I… I wanna finish this here first, so…?" It's not meant to be a question but his voice goes up at the end nevertheless. He stares down at the pencil in his hand that hovers over his homework.

Then, and it comes feather-soft: "Okay."

All air rushes from Sam's chest, his belly, all the places he's held it locked inside. "Thanks." He means it.

"Hey, sure. No problem. Told you that was alright, didn't I. Just gotta tell me." A brush of fingers through his hair. Sam turns around on his chair to watch Dean slump down on the bed.

"Y-you could, uh, you could play some game if you want."

"Oh, sure." Dean bounces right up again and has a closer look at Sam's collection.

He can't believe it. It worked. _It worked!_ No complete catastrophe, not even a hint of a frown, a twitch on Dean's face. If he grins like an idiot right now, then so be it.

Dean pulls a game from the shelf he presumably decided on, turns it in his hands to read the back text. "If you need any more games by the way, I could bring you over ours sometime."

"Oh, Uh… sure, thanks."

Dean doesn't look up, shrugs. "No problem; we don't need 'em anyway. Jen fucked up the console, so - eh."

"… What?"

"He broke it. Knocked it off the unit."

"Oh," Sam says.

"Yeah, well-" Dean feeds the disc to the console and returns to the bed. "-told 'im from the beginning t'would be a bad idea to take it with. Kinda was bound to happen." The game starts.

Even without any experiences on what it's like to have a sibling himself, Sam knows that if _his_ sibling broke their shared gaming console, he would be a hell of a lot _less calm_ about it. Judging by their room's interior, the twins can't simply go and splurge on a replacement. Next to their phones and the car, the console was the only item in their possession Sam knows of that was worth more than a handful of dollars. Sam stares at the screen for a while before returning to his homework.

Math is done ten minutes later. Physics follow up, then English. Halfway through question number three out of ten, Dean's breath against his neck has him jolt on his seat.

"Jesus," he splutters.

"I'm a ninja," Dean grins.

"Yeah, you are." Hands run up his arms, cup his neck. Dean's knuckles follow the outline of his jaw. Sam hesitates with it before he says, " _Dean_." He makes it sound like an accusation, because it is. While he does it, Sam realizes that this is probably the first time he's really said Dean's name out loud.

Dean's chuckle is warm. "Yeah?"

"I'm… I'm almost done, so…" The hands descend downwards along the line of his breastbone, rest on his stomach. "Ten. T-ten more minutes. Okay?"

"Hm." Up again - chest, shoulders, arms, wrists. Sam swallows. "Nah, I don't think so."

Just as gentle as he keeps his voice, Dean guides Sam's hands flat on the desk. His mouth is on one level with Sam's ear.

"Stand up."

Hands still pinned to the desk, Sam stands up. The slightly bowed position has his hair fall into his eyes. Dean's knee shoves the chair out of the way until he can stand right behind Sam who feels stupid for - after everything that has happened so far - having a rush of surprise wash over him at the press of a perfectly hard cock against his ass. It fits right there, right into the cleft of his ass. His exhale is shaky.

Dean's hands guide Sam's farther across the desk. "Elbows," Dean says, so Sam folds his arms into a ninety degree angle. Like this, he is bent over lower than before. The hands let go of his own ones and follow the lines of his body until they are settled on his waist, just above his lower back. "Push your ass out."

Sam complies. Since Dean doesn't give in much more than an inch, they end up pressed against each other. Even two layers of denim can't hide much more sensation like this, and Sam gives up wondering if him getting hard in return of only _that_ makes him "easy" or something. Well, that and Dean's voice; Dean's hands that slide lower to get a hold of his hips and tug softly, only once, but since Sam knows how strong Dean really is and just how little it takes to make Sam lose it, it's more than enough, really.

One hand keeps holding him while the other pushes under the hem of his t-shirt and lets it ride up to expose the skin underneath. The slide of fabric tickles harder than Sam thought it could. In a deep sigh, he lets his head hang low into the space between his arms.

"Got dimples down here too," Dean muses while his thumbs press in right above the hem of Sam's jeans. He tugs the denim down until even the most useless of Sam's belts stops it from going any further. Sam lets him, keeps his back straight and his hips tipped up. Every move of Dean has him relax more, lets him sink deeper into his position until there is barely any air between his chest and the surface of the desk. Tugged underneath his forearms, his homework was shoved across the desk along with them. Sam couldn't care less.

His belt is being unbuckled and even though he doesn't exactly need to, Dean unbuttons and unzips Sam's jeans as well - maybe just to brush the pads of his fingers over Sam's dick oh-so lightly.

One sudden, harsh pull has both Sam's jeans and underwear bunching up around his knees. Sam gasps; gasps harder when the first contact of skin on skin is a smack of palm that is hard enough to make the flesh of his ass jiggle. He recoils from it but is pulled right back into Dean's lap. The denim roughens against his now stinging skin.

"Are we gonna be a good boy, Sam?"

Oh _holy_ shit. "Y-yes." Sam can barely get the word out.

The next hit comes down on the other side. "Good."

"Ah!" Another.

"You like that?" Another.

Sam doesn't have to think twice. "Yes."

"Interesting." By the time Dean stops, Sam is barely holding on to his breath. His ass feels like it's on fire. Probably looks like it, too. Dean smoothes his palm over the curve of it and Sam squirms along with his whimper. "You really are one kinky sonofabitch, aren't you."

"Yes," he croaks, because making up excuses to pass as a half-hearted lie is not worth it, not now. He has no illusions that Dean will wrap his hand around his dick or will let Sam do it himself. The salty sting behind his screwed shut eyes is easier to hang on to than to the imaginary picture of his precome-slippery dick caught between his belly and the edge of the desk.

Dean's hands span wide over the globes of Sam's ass. Sam imagines Dean ravishing the sight of his pale hands against the angry-red flesh. A thumb drives down the crease of his ass and doesn't stop before it's tucked tight against the tiny pucker of his hole.

"How's this here been?"

Sam swallows, but there is not much to get besides stale air. "It's… better now."

A contended sound. Sam stares at the spaces between his fingers. The thumb starts moving in small, firm circles. This dry, Dean would never try to get it in - Sam is very sure of that -, but the pressure definitely gives his muscles something to work against.

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

Sam listens to Dean pulling something from the pocket of his jeans. He rips it open - it's a little package of some sort. When the content dribbels cold and thick over his hole, Sam gets it.

A pad of finger, nothing more and nothing less - and against all better judgement, Sam holds his breath. It slips inside.

"Man, an' here I thought we _popped_ that damn cherry. You're a lil' rubber doll, you know that?"

He isn't too sure this question requires an answer. He also isn't too sure if he could get one out even if that was the case.

First and only joint. "Think I can get my dick in here, Sammy?" Knuckle. "Gonna let me?"

Slow pumps in and out, in and out. Sam can feel his rim cling firmly around the girth of Dean's thumb. "Yes," he breathes.

"Uh, damn." Dean's chuckle is raw, almost a hiss. He twists his thumb deep. "Always sayin' 'yes' to me, no matter what I'm askin' for. Ya gonna spoil me rotten, kiddo."

Dean says it like it's a bad thing, like Sam wouldn't want exactly _that_ \- make Dean happy up to a point where he maybe doesn't even need anyone else besides Sam. The sound of a zipper being undone; the touch of dry, firm skin against where Dean's thumb is still crammed into. Sam shivers with the nudge of it, shifts a little in his unfamiliar position.

"Hold still. Ass out." Sam complies. "Good boy." The thumb doesn't stop moving while the sounds indicate that Dean is slicking himself with the lube's remnants. Sam sucks his bottom lip between his teeth at the intrusion of yet another finger. It burns, just like it did Friday night. Shit. It will probably hurt again when Dean gets his dick inside, too... So why does the idea make Sam break a sweat? _Shit_. He really _is_ fucked up, isn't he.

"You think you're ready?"

"... Yeah." Yup. Yeah. Definitely fucked up.

"Huh. Sure?" The thumbs bend inwards and pull into opposite directions. Sam's body surges forwards unintentionally. He isn't sure he's heard _that_ noise out of his own mouth before. "Well, if you say so." More pressure, and Sam _knows_ what Dean is holding him open for. His breath hitches, but it's in already. "Fuck." The thumbs retreat and Sam's hole immediately contracts around the girth of Dean's cock.

Yeah, "fuck" alright. Sam wants it out just as bad as he needs it inside. Just a tiny little bit he is tugged backwards into Dean's hips; it's all the little difference that kept him from whimpering (past tense, mind you). God, it's tight. Sam feels his thighs quiver underneath himself.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Y-yeah." Sam furiously nods his head - and all but pounces at the sudden thrust.

Dean's laugh is perfect, just as perfect as his firm grip on Sam's hips. It's easy, really, to imagine how he must have thrown his head back along with it. Even behind pinched shut eyelids, Sam can see it. "Rough ride - comin' right up."

Intensity and pace slide into different variations whenever Sam thinks he'd found something to melt into. Each new setting makes his knees weaker, his jaw looser. All he knows is that halfway through, he's coming, and only barely is fast enough to tug his dick under the desk. It's a feeble attempt to save his homework which is a severely crumpled mess at this point anyway... but at least (mostly) _dry_. After the worst aftershocks Dean already has Sam back to full hardness with sharp and too-soon spanks on what by now must be his cherry-red ass. Exhaustion brings Sam close to collapsing in on himself, but he forces himself to hold on. Dean's thrust make the entire desk thump into the wall. It feels too good to give up now, even though he knows he can't and won't come again this soon.

"Hold it open. Yeah, that's it." Of course, Sam does, sweaty temple and chest plastered to his desk, breathing heavy and with hands almost too shaky to get a hold of his slippery skin. But he succeeds, and Dean comes right over his hole, all the way up to his tailbone. Sam sniffles and catches a breath or two before Dean pushes the mess in deep during the last delicate moments of his erection.

Sam lets his body rock with the movements. The burn is deep and full; amazing. He sighs. He is happy. Softly, Dean plasters himself over Sam's back. His weight feels good, warm. Sam cranes his neck for the soft kisses just around the edge of his still-there t-shirt.

Before he's thought about what he is doing, Sam plugs his hand out from where he stuffed it underneath his chest and gets a hold of Dean's. It's dry and warm and everything Sam could have wanted.

Dean's fingers part wide enough to let Sam's slip in between.

"God." Dean nuzzles Sam's hairline. "Bed? Nap?"

"Yeah." Sam barely gets it out over the tremble in his tongue.

Pulling out - tissues - pants back up. Dean slumps down on the bed first, and Sam crawls after him. He doesn't have to ask for permission to do it, because Dean pulls his head against his chest before Sam can do much else. It smells good here - like Dean and sex and more Dean and Dean's cologne and so much and utterly _Dean_. Sam presses his skin firmer into the soft cotton of Dean's t-shirt.

The sun travels across the sky and pushes the shadows around the walls of Sam's room. Between dozing on and off, Dean mutters something about a remote and climbs out of bed. When he returns, he curls in on himself on his side. Sam shuffles closer, gets an arm wrapped around him. Before he falls back asleep, Sam thinks that they must look like a very strange Ying and Yang symbol from above right now.

* * *

"You ever been in love?"

The change comes more than suddenly. For a while now, they talked about little this and that. Random stuff, small stuff. This here falls in neither of those categories. On the screen, Batman interrogates the Joker in the police station.

Sam blinks lazily. "... Dunno." (He strictly ignores a certain whisper.)

Like a cat, Dean rubs his head against Sam's shoulder. His sigh smells of the salami and chili pizza they ordered and shared half an hour ago. "So... Alright, uh - if you liked someone, but they were like... completely out of your league? Like, they had someone else?" The phone call between Harvey and Rachel. She tries to calm him and Dean sighs against Sam's shoulder. "What would you do?"

The situation sounds like something he should be able to relate to, but Sam's sleepy brain won't come up with much. "I'd... uh... I'd want to make them happy, I guess. I'd give them as much as they'd want." He shrugs halfheartedly.

"What? Like, jus' bein' friends?"

"Yeah. Why not."

"Urgh. You _sap_." Sam gets a punch into his shoulder and lets Dean's forehead rub it better. "Would you tell 'em?"

A soft frown. "How I felt, you mean?"

He feels Dean giving a distant nod.

"That'd, uh. Make 'em hella uncomfortable, wouldn't it? If they already had someone else."

"Yeah, but... I dunno... Wouldn't you want to scream it into their face, like, 'hello, I'm right here, I'm _better_ , take _me'_?"

"No." The answer comes easy. A small moment (in which Dean doesn't answer) later, he decides to add, "That sounds like a real mean thing to do."

Dean laughs and Sam feels silly. What the hell are they even talking about? He feels like he missed the point completely. Chili-breath hums against the crook of Sam's arm. From this perspective, he can't see Dean's face. "Your answers, oh my God. I like you, kid. You're the smart little brother Jenny always was too stuck-up to be."

Is that a good thing? It maybe is. Superior to Jensen? Hm. Yeah. That _is_ a compliment.

The warehouses blow up and Harvey howls. Flames reach his gasoline-soaked face and eat it away.

Dean's fingertips dance over Sam's thigh and slip deeper to find the inside of his upturned palm. He presses them here, like there is a button to be found.

"Like... I really like you."

That, maybe, _was_ the button. Something definitely tipped and flooded Sam's insides, that's for sure.

He doesn't know what to reply to this. He isn't even sure he can say anything at all. As I a miracle, he apparently can move his muscles, even it's only his fingers that curl around Dean's. Again, they slot into each other. In Dean's, Sam's hand doesn't look too gigantic at all. It just _fits_.

Before he knows, the "I like you too" is out of his mouth. Now, he blushes. Now, the spilled liquid catches fire. He closes his eyes and just indulges in the fact that Dean is next to him and is holding is hand and _likes_ him. Dean must feel the jackrabbit-speed of Sam's heart, but he doesn't mock him for it. They just stay like this.

Halfway through the movie, Sam's mind will shortly wonder how Dean, during this workday afternoon, had been free to come over. He will forget to ask over the reciprocated blowjobs, but whatever. It just isn't of importance. Not in the big scheme of things, really.

"Hey, Sam."

Jensen looks, to say it through flowers, tired. More like not having slept all night. For the past several nights. Between the locker doors, Sam gives him a worried look. "Uh, hey. You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Peachy." Huh. Right. "Anyway, uh - any chance I can borrow your phone for a sec?"

The book Sam wanted to transfer from locker to backpack keeps hovering in the air between both. "Uh, phones aren't allowed in school." Which isn't too bad if (a) your phone is from the nineties and (b) nobody has your number anyway. "I left it at home."

Jensen deflates like an old tire. His sigh pierces right into that one delicate corner in Sam's insides.

"But, uh, don't you have one? What-"

"I lost it," Jensen barks. He rubs his hand over his eyes, forehead, into his hair.

Sam takes an imaginary step backwards. Jensen's gaze is pinned somewhere around Sam's face but avoids his eyes. "Oh. Shit. That must suck."

Another sigh. "Yeah."

"What about Dean's?"

As if a switched was flipped, Jensen's expression transforms into something Sam definitely hasn't seen on either of the twins yet. His eyes are there now, staring straight into Sam's, and Sam hasn't felt that particular pang of antipathy in weeks. It makes him freeze, even though his instincts tell him to run. But this is still Jensen, isn't it?

"No offense, Sam, but you better stay away from my brother. If you come close to him, all you'll get is trouble."

… What?

Sam wants to ask, to have this verified or at least repeated, but Jensen stalks past him without another look back. The book still in his hand, still frozen in place, Sam fails to get a hold of a single clear thought through the tornado in his head.

During lunch, Sam will notice that Jensen is sitting on his own.

* * *

The Impala is not there, but Sam still feels the urge to stop in front of the Winchesters' house. Jensen's words are still echoing in his ears, and he still hasn't made a single piece of sense out of them. A hopelessly naïve part of him expects Dean to stare back from one of the windows - but no. It doesn't stop him from closing in on the house though, handlebars of his bike firm in his fists. He circles it halfway until the sudden swing of the back door almost makes him pull a muscle with how violently it startles him.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?!"

All that is missing in this image is a shotgun in Mr. Winchester's hand. With an expression like this though, he doesn't need one to scare the shit out of Sam (and probably grown men, too). "I, uh-" Sam steadies himself against the support of his bike. "I'm- I'm Sam Wesson, sir; I- I live next door."

Mr. Winchester's eyes squint harder. "What. Do. You. _Want_?"

It's like facing a watchdog, really, except that this watchdog isn't chained or muzzled and can handle weapons. Sam swallows and clears his throat, presses himself straight. You know how a scared animal looks. You know how scared _people_ look. You don't have to be afraid. A dog that barks won't bite. "I, I was looking f-for. For Dean? Or Jensen?" He gives Mr. Winchester some time to react, but he neither speaks nor moves. "Are they at home, sir?"

He squints again but then softens his grip around the doorknob. Oh thank God. "They're not," Mr. Winchester eventually answers.

"Oh. Oh, uh, well, then I'll be-"

"Won't be much longer, though. Wait inside if you want." Sam's eyes go wide as Mr. Winchester pushes the door further open. This can go horribly wrong… but rejecting this generous offer would be the worst thing Sam could do right now where Mr. Winchester's distrust seems to fade into general precaution. His expression visually relaxes. For the first time, Sam dares to let his eyes flicker away from those eyes and notices grey-peppered hair and beard, wide chest and shoulders, heavily worn t-shirt and jeans.

"… Yeah. Thank you, sir."

Mr. Winchester's chest flutters under what might be the first normal breath Sam sees him take in his presence.

His bike is left leaning against the wall. Sam follows Mr. Winchester inside and tries not to watch too obviously how the man puts every lock back in place. On their way to the living room, Sam can't help but let his eyes wander through the rooms. The only time he's been down here had been at the crack of dawn in almost complete darkness. Now, in the light of day, there's not much to look at, either. Empty corridor, sparsely equipped kitchen (as far as he can tell by walking past it), no decoration whatsoever in the living room. There's a lonely table with three chairs surrounding it, two couches, an old TV. Sam remembers the cupboard from when he had a look around the still to be sold house. Except for a few wooden boxes and books, it's empty.

"Coffee?"

Sam jolts, searches for Mr. Winchester's eyes. "Ah, no, thank you, sir."

The man shrugs. "Alright." He refills his cup from the glass container on the desk and closes a book next to it. Awkward silence falls over them with both of them standing in this way too big room. After a while, Mr. Winchester puts down his cup and turns to face Sam. "Chess?"

They play on an old wooden board. The figurines are beautiful even though some miss a piece here and there. When Sam compliments them, Mr. Winchester explains that the set was a wedding present from his in-laws. While his voice is still more of a growl than anything else, Mr. Winchester's thumb swipes along the edge of the board in an almost loving gesture. Sam notices the wedding ring and doesn't ask further.

Mr. Winchester wins the first game, but it's close. While re-setting the figurines, Sam feels the sting of the man's eyes on him. "Who taught you to play?"

"My grandmother, sir."

A beat. "She did a good job."

"Yeah." Sam smiles to himself and places his rook. "Yeah, she was great. Thank you, sir."

Halfway through the game, it's clear that Sam has the upper hand this time. After not having played in ages, he's slowly getting back into the groove of it. He almost forgot how fun it could be, especially with an opponent like this. Mr. Winchester runs his fingers through his beard while he plans his next move. It's incredible how absolutely impressive he appears despite the obvious shadows under his eyes, the crinkles on every inch of his skin that is pale and looks too dry for being this puffy. The twins' stories replay in Sam's head, of Iraq (not Afghanistan) and security services and hidden guns underneath pillows. It's almost funny, somehow, how fate plays its card sometimes, Sam thinks.

Sam wins. Mr. Winchester silently nods to himself. After the next - which Sam won, too -, he gets up while grabbing both cup and glass container. This time, Sam accepts the coffee offering.

Mr. Winchester has him cornered but Sam's Queen is on a good way of turning the situation around. The coffee did good to the both of them and Sam forgot about his initial reason to do this here in the first place. Both are on their elbows over the board.

After what easily could have been twenty minutes of silence, Mr. Winchester eventually mutters, "Your dad must be hella proud of you."

Sam doesn't blink and makes his move. "He fell in oh-three."

A pause before Mr. Winchester speaks again. "Afghanistan?"

"Yes."

"… I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you, sir."

"Which unit?"

"I dunno, sir."

"He gave his life down there and you don't even know which unit he was in?"

"My mom doesn't like to talk about him, sir."

Sam wins in silence. The next is Mr. Winchester's again who smiles for the first time that Sam sees it. It's almost scary after the past hours of frowns and grumbling, but Sam takes it as a win. He returns it.

"I don't know what a smart kid like you wants from boys like mine."

"They're my friends," Sam tries.

Mr. Winchester doesn't look up from where he gathers his figurines. "You deserve better."

They are not completely done with re-setting the game when Sam jolts with the first hint of what must be the Impala's engine down the street. The low sun outside the window tells Sam that it must be around evening by now. "One more," Mr. Winchester calmly says. Sam forces his pulse back down into a moderate speed and his concentration back to the game.

He hears the car doors slam shut out of synch, listens for their steps, their voices. The front door flies open and Sam turns his head just quick enough to see one of the twins dashing right upstairs. The other one stomp into the kitchen.

"You've got a visitor," Mr. Winchester bellows.

From afar, Sam hears a muffled "What?". He's still got his head craned in a unhealthy angle when he finally sees Jensen's head peek around the corner. That face immediately freezes. "I don't believe this," Sam hears. Blood vessels can't decide between sucking in and expelling crimson red in Sam's cheeks. It's not exactly a nice feeling. He opens his mouth to say "hi", but Jensen is quicker with turning his head and shouting upstairs. "DEE!?"

"Come on, one last game, Wesson."

Sam spins around despite the urge not to, feels his fingers tremble against the table. Behind him, he hears approaching footsteps that still abruptly. Sam forces his eyes onto the board, on Mr. Winchester's fingers putting the figurines back in place. Through the silence of the house, Sam hears a shy whispering of, "They're playing _chess_."

Firm stomps, a hand on his shoulder. "Sam." Dean's voice is just as strict as his grip. Sam looks up at him and cannot find an ounce of what exited his house on Monday evening. "Play time's over, alright?"

"But we were jus-"

"NOW, Sam."

"We decided on one last game, Dean, so if you don't mind-"

"I DO mind, Dad, and I say Sam has to LEAVE now."

He's pulled to his feet with a fist in his t-shirt, gets his backpack pressed into his arms and is on the porch before he knows it. "D-Dean, I-"

The door slams shut.

On the backseat again after what feels like an eternity, Sam's fingers dig into the seams of his backpack. Nobody speaks through the entire duration of the ride and Sam is torn between being happy and nervous about that. The shock from yesterday is still ringing in his ears and, to be honest, he absolutely hadn't expected to be picked up ever again - especially not today.

Dean doesn't smoke. Jensen faces the window.

When they pull in in front of the school, a collective draught goes through the three of them. Sam can see Dean's fingers tight around the steering wheel, his eyes still up front. Nobody dares to move. It's obvious that there is something to say. Someone's gotta do it.

"Sooo." Of course, it's Dean. Of course, he tries to make it smooth and easy, but even Sam can hear that obvious trying in his tone. When Jensen doesn't even flinch when Dean turns to look at him, he cranes his neck to get a look at Sam in the backseat. He returns the eye contact, of course. "Friday again, huh. What about we bring back last week? Tha' was fun, right?"

Between the honest desire and the strange obligation to say it, Sam starts parting his lips for the "yes". Because, what else is there to say for him? His eyes flinch over to that back of the head when Jensen mutters, "You guys do whatever. I'm out."

Dean squints over his lopsided smile. "What? Why not?"

"Not in the mood."

"Yeah, _right_." Dean's laugh pounces against the car's interior. Sam sees his right hand slide off from the steering wheel and down towards Jensen's body.

Sam hears a faint slap. "I mean it," Jensen hisses before rushing out of the car.

Sam knows they both are staring after Dean's twin. The seconds from him circling the car's front with his head bowed and his shoulders set like a football player up to him vanishing in the crowd of students are cruel, even for Sam. He's still gaping when he dares to let his eyes flicker to Dean.

It's a strange expression he finds. It reminds him of the stay in front of the lake, of his concentration on his brother being interrupted - as if someone ripped something from him and left him alone and bleeding.

A few more seconds before Dean blinks, breathes again; then swipes his eyes to his left, to Sam. He sets his jaw back into control and tries a wary smile over his soft frown. "An' you? Wanna bail on me as well?"

"I'd never." Sam shakes his head with his words.

Dean's eyebrows waver then, shortly flip from down- to upturned; and he coughs a laugh. Sam can see his own reflection in the wetness of those eyes.

"'Never' is a big word, Sammy."


	5. Chapter 5

In the afternoon, the Impala and Dean are waiting for him. Jensen is nowhere to be seen. "He wanted to go alone. Study group or some shit." Dean flicks the remains of his cigarette into the gutter.

Sam is invited to sit in the passenger seat. Even though the circumstances to make it happen are not the best, he can't help but be happy. Well, as happy as he can be after this morning... after yesterday... with the clear twisting in his guts telling him something is terribly wrong. Sam pulls the door closed behind him and watches Dean slide into his seat from the corner of his eyes. "Don't you, uh… have to be at work o-"

"Can ALL OF YOU just gimme a BREAK for ONE DAMN SECOND?!"

Dean's fist smashes against the dashboard, making Sam startle.

"… Jesus, I… Sorry. Sorry, man. I didn't mean to yell. Sorry. Okay? Are you hungry? Should we get something?"

Sam just stares at Dean, doesn't feel his mouth, his face, only knows that he says, "No, thanks," and that Dean's face freezes at those two first letters after going from murderer to Prince Charming faster than Sam could have blinked.

They don't speak on the way home and Dean doesn't interfere when Sam excuses himself with homework, says his goodbyes and is out of the car and halfway inside of his house in the matter of seconds. Sam pulls the front door closed behind him and stays there with his back pressed to the door, eyes lowered to the tips of his sneakers.

* * *

When his phone vibrates an hour later, what truly makes Sam look up from his homework is the confusion about the unfamiliar sound. He grabs it, turns on the screen.

One new message from "D".

_I'm lonely. Wanna come over?_

How did Dean get his number? How is Dean's number saved to his phone? Maybe Dean helped himself on Tuesday while Sam was being asleep...?

Sam puts the phone away and tries not to think of anything. It buzzes again not five minutes later.

 _Should_ I _come over?_

Two minutes.

_I'm sorry for yelling at you._

_C'mon, don't be like that, Sammy._

_I'll let you stick your dick up_ my _ass for a change. Deal?_

It's sad that he has to laugh at that, isn't it?

_I heard you laugh just now, even through two damn sets of windows. Laughing means "yes", you know? Pick-up language. Crystal clear._

Sam smiles down at the stupid little device in his hand. Oh man. This guy. It's not fair that he is able to do that, to just make Sam's brain fly out of the window with just a handful of words. But that's how it seems to be.

The screen says "I'll be there in 2" before Sam dials the "send" option and gets up from his chair.

Even though Dean doesn't let him wait long enough to reach for the doorbell, Sam feels stupid for coming here, booty call or not. Dean's hand instantly drapes around his shoulder, warm and possessive, and drags him upstairs.

Just because he is quick enough and knows what he is looking for, Sam catches a glimpse of the living room where the TV shows some generic news channel. The floor around the couch is cluttered with empty bottles. Sam hears Mr. Winchester's snores until Dean closes the attic door behind them.

"He's, uhm." Dean's voice sounds strained and smells like smoke and beer. "He's got a call earlier. One of his marine buddies passed away last night, so…"

Sam searches for Dean's eyes but they don't allow to be found. He frowns. "I'm not mentally challenged, you know."

Dean gives a feeble snort at that. Sam slips out from underneath his arm and takes a few steps into the room, has a look around. The Wii is indeed gone. Bottles on the ground, near the bed. The silver case is nowhere to be seen but the ashtray is overflowing. He doesn't hear Dean move. Maybe he's just too tired to keep this stupid game of hide and seek up.

Sam lets his eyes rest on the ashtray. "Dean. I know a useless adult when I see one."

"It's not like that." Tiny voice from behind him. He doesn't want to turn around to see the matching face to it.

"You sure put a lot of effort into keeping me away from him though."

"He's-" Now, Dean moves, and Sam turns around to be able to premonition what is happening. At this point, and it's sad that it has come to this, he cannot exactly be relaxed with his back to him. Dean's steps are unsure and only vaguely into Sam's general direction. He drags his hand around his neck, into his hair, lets it drop down again. "He's, uh. He's got his issues, an' I won't deny that. But... he isn't a _bad_ _person_. He's our dad. He's family."

"Oh, okay? So, and, since my mom is, you know, my _mom_ , leaving me on my own since I started grade school doesn't make her a bad person either?"

Dean's eyes dart up at that. "Exactly."

Sam feels the surface of his palms dampen. He balls them into fists and digs his nails into his skin.

"She's your _mom_ , man." A small frown settles on Dean's face. "Don't talk about her like that."

At any other given time of the last weeks, Sam would have been blissed to have Dean walking towards him. Unfortunately, at this very moment, this is anything but the case. He's never talked about this with anyone. Ever. And now that he does, with the only person he's ever met who probably can relate - this is what he gets? "But it's true," Sam grits. Dean is close enough to punch.

When Sam will look back at this moment, he will realize just how tender Dean looked like when he spoke again. "At least you still have her."

Shame immediately washes away Sam's anger. He feels stupid and terrible and everything in between. Here he is, right in front of someone who lost their mother, just to complain about his own not meeting his expectations of parenthood. Whining about it. In front of _him_.

And Dean just looks at him, all soft, all kind. It's a strange sight after the recent turmoil, after being afraid and charmed and aroused and unnerved by something that could also be like _this_. Maybe, despite everything, underneath all the layers of shit upon shit of personality, there's still this child who needs to believe in their parents in order to survive. Innocent faith.

"What happened to yours?" Sam eventually asks.

Just like that, that Dean is gone. A smile takes over, almost a sneer, teeth flashing and eyelids lowering. And Dean chuckles. He _chuckles_. "Hm. Where were we? Ah, yeah." Arms sneak around Sam's waist and softly tug him close against that warm body. He lets it happen. "I think we talked about whose dick should go up whose ass."

The kiss is soft and Sam allows his eyes to slide shut, just like Dean's do. It takes two, three ones like that until they get bolder, until Sam's tongue tastes beer and cigarettes and faint traces of coffee. He wraps his hands around Dean's sides. They're almost at eye level, so it's comfortable to just stand like that.

He likes Dean. He really really does. Despite being scared, yelled at, lied at - Sam can't shake that deep urge to be with Dean. He needs to be touched, to be held by him. He _wants_ to.

Somehow, they make it to the mattress without letting go of each other. Sam is on his back with Dean's mouth on his neck, runs his hands up and down Dean's chest, his back, his shoulders. That body on top of him is moving in gentle nudges, keeps the two of them separated but for mouth and crotch. They're both ready for whatever and Sam doesn't mind anything. All he wants to think about is this, Dean, their hands on each other, the breath they share, the warmth that pours into him at how perfect all of it is.

Jeans get lost along with underwear and socks. Sam's eyelids flutter at the fluent pull of Dean's shirt over his head, the wide space of that chest, the drop of the amulet right into the middle. He mimics the move and feels ugly against all that beauty, the freckles, the dusty pink of Dean's nipples. Dean runs his thumbs over Sam's and says that Sam is _so cute, so sexy_. Sam licks his lips and dares to brush his hands from back to front, runs the heels and then fingertips over Dean's nipples in return with his eyes trained on Dean's face. The reaction is shallow, a mere hitch of breath, but Sam bathes in it, repeats his move, feasts on Dean's breathless little chuckle, the _oh baby_.

"We don't… have to do that if you don't like it..." Every time Dean's hips slide forwards, Sam's dick catches against the back of his balls, nudges a bit upwards. It started leaking some moments ago and Sam's hands are anchors around Dean's hips.

Dean kisses him deep and slow, just like he drags his hips. When they part, Dean's lips feel like a smile against Sam's cheek. "Did you like it when I did it to you?"

He tilts his ass differently so that the tip of Sam's dick is securely nestled into that dip between taint and tailbone. Soft eight-figures, and Sam thinks he's gonna lose his mind.

The weight of Dean's face decreases then, and Sam opens his eyes against the beginning darkness. Dean's knuckles brush along the line of his jaw. Sam wonders if Dean had always been as beautiful as he is right now. "Yeah. Yeah, I think you did. Hm?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes.

The little smile widens for a chuckle, a hiss, an almost pained expression. Sam watches it all come and go in fascination. "God, what is it about you and your puppy eyes? It goes directly to my dick when you lookit me like that."

Sam has no intentions when he looks at Dean. There is nothing to pretend, nothing to hide. It's a rare thing to do, not having to try to be anything he's not. So he doesn't know what he looks like, and he doesn't need to, either.

Shortly before the rubbing against Dean's ass has Sam ready to blow, Dean says he wants to suck his dick.

"But I'll…"

"Don't worry."

So Sam doesn't worry, not when Dean urges him to keep lying down, not when Dean climbs off his lap, not when he straddles Sam's face and kisses the peak of Sam's hip bone and gets a hold of his own dick to tip it against Sam's gaping lips. He closes his eyes, sucks the head into his mouth and runs his tongue over it, its barely seeping slit. Dean's breath rushes over his dick, just a tease maybe, or actually a silent praise of what Sam's mouth makes him feel like. Sam's legs jolt under soft licks to his already throbbing cock and he has to bring his hands up to reach around the small of Dean's back to have something to hold on to. He's not gonna last long. Not ever. Sam gulps down some more inches to work at least a little towards an even score, but Dean's groan kinda just makes his situation worse.

Dean tugs his thighs apart, just a little, until he can mouth down to Sam's balls, then a little deeper. Sam shivers at the first touches, the faint burn of baby stubble on Dean's chin, the first dip of tongue against his already fluttering hole. Fingers pull him spread further, make more room, and Sam lets it happen, just rides with it and bobs his head as good as he can in this position. A few flicks and the tongue is replaced with fingertips that press, don't enter but just _press_ , and Dean's mouth closes around one of Sam's balls. He rolls his tongue over it and turns to get the other one before finally going for the prize. He easily swallows half of Sam's length down his throat, just like that, and Sam can't help but be amazed and in love and happy and- Oh God.

As always when he's with Dean, he shoots a lot. Dean swallows it all, sucks him through it, lets his fingers work almost absently. Sam has to wrench off of his dick to get enough air but latches back onto it as soon as his lungs allow it. Dean hums around his cock, tickling a last spurt out of it. He lets go and rushes his mouth deeper where his fingers are.

"You're amazing," Sam hears. "Geez, fuck. I see you an' all I wanna do is get you naked. Your tiny ass. Oh man. What are you doin' to me?"

Dean's cock pulls back and is followed by his entire body. Sam blinks his eyes open and watches Dean turn around to face him again, how he crawls into the space between Sam's legs and gets on his elbows to hover above Sam's chest. Their foreheads are resting against each other and the closeness between their bodies is enough to turn the insistent burn of something hard and hot being pressed inside of his body into the most perfect completion of this image.

"Next time," Dean breathes against his lips, "Maybe next time we switch, alright?"

"Yeah," Sam hums.

* * *

Sam doesn't remember falling asleep when he is softly rocked back into reality.

"-am. Sam. Hey."

He blinks, frowns, wants to start groaning but is shushed. "Jen… sen…?" He only mouths it.

"Where's your phone?"

"I- uh." He tries to get his head out of the fog of sleep, rubs his eyes, finally sees Jensen's silhouette crouching before him. "It… It's at home? I guess?"

"Could you get it? _Please_?"

Something about the urgency in Jensen's whispers makes Sam comply without thinking much about it. He shuffles away from Dean as softly as he can in order not to wake him up; he doesn't need to be told to do that. Jensen is handing him his clothes and he is worming into them, but somehow the movements are still too much and Dean stirs under the covers.

"What…?"

Jensen's hand closes around Sam's arm and pulls.

"What is…? Jen? 'S that you?"

The pull is heavy but Sam is still too uncoordinated to get to his feet quick enough.

Suddenly, Dean is sitting up straight. "What's going on?" His tone is sharp. He flicks on the tiny lamp.

In the sudden light, Jensen's features are tight. "Nothing."

"Yeah, 'nothing' my ass." Over his shoulder, Sam sees Dean's eyes dart down to where Jensen is grabbing him. He frowns. "What are you doin', Jen?"

Sam holds his breath and doesn't know why. The dig of Jensen's fingers is starting to hurt, so he softly tugs into the opposite direction to let Jensen know. His arm is free without much struggle.

With Dean's back turned to the lamp, it's hard to see his face - but even like this, Sam can see his eyes dance all over his twin, can see his brows furrow tighter and tighter, the twitch in his mouth before his eyes still and he speaks. "Are you…?"

"Dean-"

"I told you it's not good for you."

"Yeah, well, it's none of your damn business!"

"It is. You're my _brother_." Dean's face is stone. "He's not good for you, Jen."

Sam doesn't dare look away from Dean whose eyes are pinned somewhere behind Sam, where Sam knows is Jensen's face. Again, he has the imminent feeling that he does not belong here, that he ran into something he does not understand. Except that he does.

Jensen bursts with bitter laughter. "Look who's talking! 'Mr. Functional' of the year!"

Dean's eyes don't move an inch. "Sam, would you please go home now?"

Sam shakes with his name and stirs to get to his feet.

"What? Your little fucktoy too precious to see the REAL Dean?!"

"Sam, go home, NOW!"

He doesn't need the yelling, doesn't need to be addressed. He's already halfway down the stairs, doesn't turn to look for Mr. Winchester, just runs for the kitchen window and crawls out to vanish into the night.

* * *

They didn't close the window. On his bed, Sam can hear as good as every word. He could slam his own window shut, could pull the curtains closed and put on loud music - but he isn't trusting his muscles at this point.

He lies on his side and lets the shouts ebb by.

"I never agreed to this!"

"Yeah, well, Jenny, we don't always get what we want; at least you can finish school!"

"As if you didn't volunteer, Dean; AS IF!"

"What was I supposed to DO?! Someone HAS to pay the rent and the food an'- ananand the, the CAR and your BOOKS and your fucking TELEPHONE BILLS!"

"I never asked you to do it!"

"But you're living pretty WELL with it, AREN'T YOU!?"

The sudden silence is worse than the screaming. Sam listens with wide eyes.

Jensen's voice starts quieter before exploding again. "What the fuck, Dean?! Wait. Wa- WAIT!!"

Everything happens fast then. Sam hears doors slam, jumps out of bed, runs downstairs and hasn't reached his own when he hears the Winchester's front door slam open, followed by a single set of sprinting feet down the asphalt. Jensen's voice is still screaming for "wait" from inside the house, and when Sam is outside, all he sees is the driver's door of the Impala smashing shut, the tail lights flicker on, Jensen in the door, the porch, the path towards the street - engine howls and tires screech and Dean is gone.

Sam runs after Jensen who makes a few feet down the road before giving up. He stays behind just in case and lets the both of them get some air to breathe. Jensen's back is heaving under his exhaustion and his neck is a straight line, his face pointed where the Impala disappeared into a turn.

They don't say nothing for a few moments, until Jensen spins around and looks him straight into the eye. "Phone? Please?"

Sam hands it over. Both their hands are shaking. "Where did he go?"

"Don't know. Don't care." Jensen walks past him and has his eyes plastered to where his thumbs are pressing numbers. "Stay away from him. Go home."

Under the streetlight, Sam is alone with his panic-sweaty back and shaking legs.

No, he thinks.

No. I have to get him. I have to find him.

He spins around, stares down the road, turns again, stares again. Where could he have gone?

There's only one place that comes to his mind. It doesn't really make sense, but it's crystal clear somehow, so vivid there is nothing to hesitate over.

Sam runs home and jumps on his bike.

* * *

Out of air and with battery acid in his legs, Sam almost faints at the sight of the Impala at the roots of his tree. He discards the bike into the grass and climbs faster than he should be able to after this ride, with his hands almost too slippery to get a proper hold of the rope. But he manages.

When his head pops into the tree house, the first and only thing Sam sees is Dean.

His foot almost slips from the last step but he heaves his body inside somehow. It's heavy all of a sudden, now that feeling returned to his limbs. Adrenaline stops pouring into his cells and he can hear himself again, his ragged breath, the drumming of his pulse in his ears. He crawls over to Dean who is lying on his back like he's been shot, all limbs stretched away from himself. Sam's presence doesn't cause any reaction whatsoever.

Sam touches Dean's hand whose fingers slightly curl. In the moonlight, Dean's face is pale against the peppers of freckles. His eyes are wide open and pointed towards the ceiling. The irises stretch broad over the usual green. His breath is shallow but steady, as if he was asleep.

He is on something, definitely. Sam doesn't know what it is, but there is no doubt it _is_ what's happening.

But Dean is fine. He is safe. That's _something_. Right?

Sam huffs his exhale before he slouches down on his side next to Dean, plugs and rearranges that arm until its girth is the only thing dividing their bodies. He entwines their fingers and presses Dean's into a tighter curl with his other hand since they are completely lax.

"I break everything." All that renders Sam able to hear the small whisper is that his breath finally came down to something approximately normal.

"Don't say that," he hums. His throat hurts from the sharp panting during the bike ride.

"But it's true. _Everything_." Dean's voice is unusually calm; there's a slight slur to it. Sam wants to know what Dean took, how _much_ of it he took, but he doubts he'd get an answer in the state Dean's in right now. He closes his eyes. All he can do is listen. "Mom... Dad... Jen... I try so hard, but... it just won't _work_. They just… They slip through my fingers, Sammy. All of 'em. I always thought: nah, Jen, I have _Jen_ ; 's long as I have _him_ , I'll be alright... He needed me and I kinda needed him to _need me_. You know? It's what siblings do. ... But I went too far at s'me point. And you can't take that back, not somethin' like that."

A pause. Sam doesn't know what to respond to this, if there even is a way to respond to something like this. Dean is obviously babbling. He nuzzles Dean's shoulder and watches the pendant on Dean's chest rise and fall with his breathing.

"I think the first time we fucked, we were like, what? Twelve? Jesus Christ. That's pretty fucked up, isn't it."

Dean laughs. Sam doesn't.

"But he wanted it too. We were in it together." Dean's head lulls to the side, knocks against Sam's. "We were never 'normal', you know. An' I don't expect you to understand either, I really don't. Nobody understands. It's just… We only had _us_. Others, yeah, alright, but it never was like 'us'. I thought that's how it would gonna be forever. But I guess you grow up, like it or not."

Sam remains motionless, Dean's hand still warm in his own, still too weak to flex his fingers himself. Dead weight.

Dean's dry laughter comes and goes. "And then _Jay_ came along. And I get it, yeah; he's what Jensen needs, what makes him happy. _Who_. I could never be like Jay. He's better at _everything_. Smarter. Richer. Funnier. More hung."

He laughs again. Sam hates the tone of it. It's scary. Dean is scary. Sam doesn't want to be scared by Dean.

"He looks a lot like you, Sammy, you know that? Maybe that's why Jen wanted you at first. Substitute. God knows I know how _that_ works, ha! I do that all the time. But in the end, I come back to him, into our bed, and I hold him and I know that this is what I want. What makes me happy."

Sam is completely aware that Dean only tells him all this because he is as high as a kite and not in control of his actions. He knows that Dean doesn't intend to let Sam know all this, to let _anyone_ know _any_ of this. Dean doesn't mean it when he says these things so easily, drapes them in front of Sam to let him stab himself with it.

"I dun expect you to understand," Dean adds after a while.

Yeah. No. Sam doesn't. He doesn't understand how someone can be this cruel, this desperate. Maybe he really doesn't know what love is about.

Kansas River rushes by, all quietly and tame. For a while, that and the cicadas is every sound there is.

"I _hate_ Jay," Dean eventually spits. "I hate his _guts_. I was so stupid; shit. I thought it'd be a nice and fun game, like all the other ones before. That Jen would walk 'round the corner after a few weeks and go like 'okay, next one'. … But he didn't get tired of 'im. I went through all the phases, I tell ya, _all of them_. Pretended not to see what was going on... made Jay mad... made Jen mad... tried to make Jay look like a complete douche... but nothing worked. Jen drifted away and away an' away an'... Sand through my fingers, Sammy boy."

Sam feels the turmoil going through Dean's arm as he tries to lift it, maybe to act out the image from his last sentence. Of course, it doesn't obey to his will. Sam hears a grunt of laughter, deep and cruel.

"But then, _then_ Dad said we've gotta _move_. Quickly! He lent money from the wrong guys 'n pay day would end up with at least one Winchester in the hospital o' graveyard, he said. So we moved. And I got out of the car and there _you_ were, Sam. Looked a' me like a lost lil' puppy and oh, _damn_ , I thought; this is a _new start_. Away from Jay, just Jen 'n me, just like the old days; fuckin' and tossin' and laughin' an' just... just him and me."

He presses harder against Dean, needs to feel his warmth, the give of his flesh, needs to smell himself still lingering on that skin. He wishes the tears to go away.

Dean is calm again, makes a soft click in his throat when he swallows. "But he di'n't forget about Jay. And Jay di'n't forget about Jen, either. An' I am lying on the floor of some goddamn tree house with some kid, trippin' balls and babblin' so much that I think my tongue's gonna fall off any second." Dean giggles then, honest to God _giggles_ , and actually manages to tug on Sam's hand. When Sam opens his eyes, Dean even raised his head a bit to see him better. His grin is wild. "Can we fuck?"

Laughing is better than crying. "Wow. Someone's moody."

"It's the molly, I can't help it. We should get naked. Now. Do you wanna smoke? There's pot in the compartment box if you want some."

"No, I'm fine."

Dean's pout is adorable. "It's no fun if I'm the only one who's high."

"You're high enough for the both of us."

"Sounds legit. Okay. … So, you wanna fuck _me_ this time?"

"… Do you want that?"

"Dunno. Jen isn't too into that. Which is convenient, 'cause I prefer topping. Which you know by now, I guess."

Sam sighs. Seems like no matter what topic they start, it will eventually lead to Jensen.

"Man. He has the prettiest ass. Made him come hands free as soon as I got to know what a prostate was. God, the _faces_ he makes...! It sounds like self-praise, but believe me, not even _I_ make faces as pretty as him; and we have the same goddamn face. … He's just _perfect_." Dean bursts back into laughter. "Shit. Why am I tellin' you all this stuff? I've, like, never talked to anyone about that. Ever. See? Looks like I really really like you, kiddo."

Sam looks down on him. He wants to believe what he hears. He wants Dean to know what he's doing, to be reasonable and true and not a piece of shit on drugs who wouldn't care if he told all the things he just entrusted Sam with to a random person as if it meant nothing. As if _Sam_ mean nothing.

His chest feels heavy when he says, "I really like you, too."

The smile on Dean's lips fades a little. His eyes are trying to focus on Sam's and swim in the sockets. "You looked at me jus' like that when we first met."

Sam's heart aches. "… You remember that?"

"'Course I do. Saw you 'n thought 'yep, I like this town; I can work this out'. I thought 'yeah, maybe it's my turn to have a Padaleski now'; my very own one. I thought maybe Jen'd like you too, hence the resemblance 'n shit." Dean manages to drag his left arm up as far as he can, until Sam helps and nuzzles the palm that reaches out for his face. Dean's sigh is heavy, his smile barely there anymore. "I thought it'd work out."

They hold eye contact for a moment.

You know what a scared animal looks like.

"I really fucked up this time, Sammy. I really, really did."

Sam blinks. Dean doesn't.

"I pushed him," Dean says.

Of all these confessions, getting this one out seems to hurt Dean the most. And Sam understands him.

"I pushed him an' he fell, knocked his head. I was staring down at my hands, like, how did this _happen_? I've never hurt him, ever, not even in play. Not him. I could never. But somehow, I did. I was just so… Have you ever been _angry_? Like, _really_ _angry_?"

Sam thinks of Christmases at Mom's ex-bf's places and forgotten birthdays and empty fridges. "… Yeah."

"It was inside me like a ball of, of _dough_ or somethin'. I had to get it out, at least a tiny bit; I just _exploded_! It was hella scary. Jen stared at me like he'd never seen me before, an' fuck, that hurt. Hurt so much I wished I could turn back time an' undo it. I shouldn't have done it, Sam. Why am I like this?" The words come frantic and more and more slurred. Dean's eyes start to swim again. Sam grabs his hand tighter. "Why? I don't wanna scare anyone. An' Jen - not Jen, never Jen; not him."

"He surely knows you didn't mean it." _Because that's how you two are_ , he doesn't say. He doesn't need to. If anyone knows that, it's Dean. "I'm sure he understands."

"Yeah. 'N that's my biggest fear of 'em all." Dean's eyes drift off. His smile turns lopsided. "You said it yourself; remember? _It'd mess him up_. We're not normal, never were… but _this_? This is bigger. An' it's all _me_."

When Sam cradles Dean's cheek, his brows twitch into worry. His eyes stay restless.

"I think I broke it. I broke it all. Even with him."

The eyes find him. How could Sam ever see a predator in them? (He will remember, but not now.)

"He's gonna leave me, Sammy. Know he's gonna. That's what they do. What they all do with me. I screw up and then they leave."

He soothes his palm along Dean's cheeks, his temple. It feels oddly familiar. Nana's funeral was only a year ago. "People leave sometimes. Sometimes without any reason." He thinks of his Dad, Doug, his grandparents. Maybe there had been a time where every week with one and the same boyfriend of Mom's seemed like a road into the right direction, a time where Sam didn't want them to be exchanged for someone else. He doesn't dare to remember that time.

Dean's eyes shine wetly against the sparse moonlight as he smiles. "Such a smart kid. I can't believe you're hangin' out with a failure like me."

He reciprocates the smile as far as it will go. "Well, I guess I can sympathize."

"You dun have a dad, I dun have a mom… We should hook our folks up with each other. Oh God, they'd have babies from Hell. Hella good lookin, but twisted as fuckkkk. Can you imagine that, another you, another me? Somehow combined? That's crazy talk, isn't it. Please shut me up already, this is getting real embarrassin'."

"I like it. I enjoy getting to know you." Even if you're just babbling. Even if you won't remember any of this tomorrow. Even if you don't mean half of the stuff you're saying.

"You sure 'bout that? 'Cause if I were you, I wouldn't get close to me fo' more than five miles." Dean doesn't sound too amused when he says it.

Sam brushes his fingers through the longer strands of Dean's hair. "Your brother told me the same and I think neither of you is right."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He tries to get a hold of Dean's eyes. "I told you I like you, didn't I? I mean it."

They slip away. The smile stays put. "You haven't even heard half the shit I do. You don't know me."

"I know enough," Sam insists.

"... You're a romantic, aren't you."

He wants to cry again. Dean won't remember it anyway, right? But laughing feels better in the end. "Maybe. You think?"

"Yeah." Dean tips his chin upwards, as if he struggled to raise his head again.

Sam gets the clue and leans down to kiss him on the mouth. "Do you like romantics?" he whispers.

Dean groans and tugs on the hand they still are keeping entangled. "I like your romantic bratty little ass, I guess," he grunts.

Kisses fall and fall until Dean becomes impatient and urges Sam to straddle his lap. He begs for a fuck more often than Sam can pay attention to it, but in this state Dean probably couldn't get hard if his life depended on it. It feels nice to have Dean's lips move underneath his own though, breathless little whispers of his and Jensen's name and endless more little things of which he is only able to make out about half.

But that isn't of importance. Not in the big scheme of things, really.

Sam keeps kissing Dean's slack mouth over what could as well be half of the night, runs his hands up and down Dean's chest and face. Dean is soft and warm underneath him, little hums and syllables on his lips that don't make sense.

"I won't leave you," Sam whispers.

He repeats it until they both fall asleep.

* * *

A phone is buzzing him back to consciousness. Through the blur of the first few seconds of sight, Sam sees movement, a back - Dean's back.

"Jen?"

That voice is weak and broken as if Dean smoked two packets of cigarettes and then got run over by a truck. That body still surges upright, steadies himself on his free arm.

Sam sits up as well. He hears Jensen speak but can't make out the actual words. Over the phone line and the two foot of distance, it's simply a fluid humming.

"No," Dean says, suddenly very firm and not too sleepy anymore. "No. No. _No_. Nonononono, Jen; no, NO!!"

Dean jolts across the floor and Sam just barely gets to grab him before he's jumping right down the entrance. " _No_ ," Dean croaks.

Sam presses Dean's back close to his chest. Just hold him. Just don't let him do something stupid. Hold him. You've got to hold him.

"Jen." And then, an almost inaudible, " _Please_."

The line disconnects.

For a while, Sam solely listens for Dean's breath, his heartbeat. Both is flat enough not to be noticed at all, but maybe it's only because his own are too heavy.

"... Dean?"

"Jay picked him up," Dean mutters.

Water rushes by. The tree gently rocks in the wind.

"He's gone."

* * *

Once on the ground, Sam has no idea what to do next. Dean can't drive like this; Sam can't drive at all. There's only one bike. They could call a cab, but how would they pay for _that_? They could walk.

Dean doesn't move. He's staring into the river.

Despite the first rays of sunshine peeking through the trees, the air is still cool, especially this close to the water. Eventually, Sam sneaks his fingers in between Dean's. They don't return the clasp.

They're cold, stiff - lifeless. Sam doesn't dare drag his hand higher where there's more of Dean's skin. There is no comfort to be found, no place on or in Dean that isn't hollow right now.

Dean doesn't cry.

As they watch the river run by, the only thought that Sam can materialize in his mind is that this is where he belongs. Next to Dean, holding his hand, not letting go. Not ever again.

He won't lie and say "It's gonna be alright".

He won't tell the truth and say "I won't leave you".

When he will think of this moment months, years later, he will remember the weight of Dean's hand in his own and the taste of a new day on his tongue.


End file.
